


Picking Up The Pieces

by j_rob



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Criminal AU, Criminal Spin, F/M, M/M, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 08:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 64,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_rob/pseuds/j_rob
Summary: Bilbo Baggins isn't quite sure how he went from living a quiet, peaceful life on Bag End Farms one day to running around Chicago with a bunch of small-time criminals trying to take back a stolen family company the next, but here he is.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a sunny day at Bag End Farms. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the Georgia heat is unforgiving in June. Bilbo Baggins wipes the sweat from his brow with his pocket handkerchief and pushes his shirt sleeves up his arms. He looks out over his farm lands. Everything is vivid and green, and in this moment, Bilbo is struck by how much he loves this land; he wouldn’t trade this view for the world.

He turns around and heads back down the hill towards the house. He revels in the feel of the plush grass beneath his bare feet as he walks. He closes his eyes and smiles as he goes and listens to the birds chirping and the insects buzzing, and he begins to think that he truly is blessed. Not many people ever get to know this kind of peace.

It isn’t until he’s in the drive that he notices someone sitting on his front porch steps. “Uncle Gandalf?” he says, squinting at the visitor. He blinks a few times, almost certain that he is mistaken, that this is a mirage created by the morning heat.

But, no, it isn’t. The man, dressed in his usual metal band t-shirt and cargo shorts, lifts his hand and waves as Bilbo approaches, a serene smile on his face. He has sandals on his feet and a pair of sunglasses on his face. His long, gray hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his beard is as long and as unkempt as ever.

“What a surprise to see you here,” Bilbo says as he reaches the steps. He tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but it slips out anyway. Luckily for him, his uncle doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, man,” Gandalf says, reclining on the steps and taking a drag on his joint. Bilbo coughs at the smell, and his eyes begin to water. “I thought I’d stop by for a visit.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. It’s not even ten in the morning, and his uncle is already stoned. “You know, you could have called,” he says. “There are these things called telephones.”

“Yeah, well I kinda thought I should be here for this,” Gandalf says. “You know, kinda wanted to see your face. Just a tincy bit. Thought it might be worth it, you know?”

Bilbo tries hard not to lose his patience. “What is it, then?”

“Well, you see, I know this guy,” Gandalf says. “And he’s looking into doing this business thing, you know what I mean?”

Bilbo folds his arms across his chest and taps his foot impatiently. “No, I don’t,” he says firmly.

“It’s like this business thing,” Gandalf repeats. “And he’s looking for a guy to help him out. So I was like, ‘I know a guy.’”

Gandalf trails off. “Is that all?” Bilbo asks after several moments of silence.

“Oh, no, man!” Gandalf says, suddenly snapping to. “So this guy I told you about, he’s looking for a business partner. Someone pretty much just like you.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrow. “Someone with money, you mean?”

“Well…”

“Nope, I’m sorry. Can’t do it. Not in a million years.”

“Aw, come on, man,” Gandalf whines. “But it’s like an adventure. Come on, live a little!”

“I am living,” Bilbo snaps. “I am living quietly and comfortably right here without sinking any of my money into some crazy business scheme that will just end in disaster, thank you very much.”

“A little harsh, man,” Gandalf says. “Why do you always assume things are gonna be bad?”

“Because you’re involved,” Bilbo grumbles. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late to work. Good morning.”

He walks up the steps and goes inside the house to find his Birkenstocks and his work apron. When he comes back outside a few minutes later, Gandalf is still on the steps. “Oh, hey, man,” he says as Bilbo makes his way onto the porch, almost as if he’s forgotten that he’s already seen his nephew. “Hey, do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Bilbo’s patience is now completely gone. “You need to leave,” he says firmly. “And stay away from my pantry.” Gandalf opens his mouth to protest. “Go back to… wherever it is you came from. I am going to work now. Good morning.” He walks across the drive and opens the door to his old fashioned Volkswagen Beetle.

“I’ll come back later, then!” Gandalf calls as Bilbo shuts the door, perhaps a little harder than he intended to. He starts the car and pulls it around the drive. Gandalf waves from the steps and takes another drag on his joint. Bilbo shakes his head and wonders how they are related.

Bilbo is still annoyed when he gets to the store. Prim is waiting patiently outside the front door for him. “Good morning, Mr. Bilbo,” she smiles. Her curly brown hair is pulled back and there’s a sunny yellow bandanna tied around her head. Her bright blue eyes are gleaming in the morning sun, and suddenly Bilbo isn’t so angry anymore.

“Good morning, Prim.” He unlocks the front door and they file in. Their family grocery store isn’t much, but it’s cozy and familiar, and most of what they sell is fresh and grown right on Bilbo’s own land. Prim is still relatively new to the family, having married Bilbo’s cousin Drogo only a few months before, but she’s a good worker and a joy to be around.

Prim gets to work right away, sweeping up the floor and putting out the fresh fruits that have just been delivered. Bilbo ties his worn green apron around his middle, and heads to the back room to check the inventory. He’s busy counting bananas when he realizes that Prim is leaning on the door frame, her arms folded expectantly across her chest. “I’m sorry, Prim, did you say something?” Bilbo asks, wondering how long she’s been waiting.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Prim says dismissively. “But are you all right, Mr. Bilbo? You seem a bit distracted this morning, is all. You’ve counted these bananas at least twice. Don’t think I’ve seen any get up and walk away since you last did.” She flashes a sparkling smile at him, which Bilbo tries hard to return.

“I’ve had a visit from my uncle,” Bilbo says.

“You mean the one that looks like an aging hippy?”

“The very same.”

“Well, what’d he want?”

“Money, I suppose,” Bilbo says with a shrug. “Some business venture, or some other nonsense. Nothing to worry about,” he adds reassuringly as a puzzled look crosses her face. “I told him no, and he’ll leave when he gets bored, and go back to that filthy, tree-hugging boyfriend of his.”

Prim snorts. “Does his boyfriend really live in the forest?” she asks. “That’s what Drogo’s told me, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Bilbo says.

“What a strange family I’ve married into…” Prim wanders off and Bilbo shakes his head, and returns to counting his bananas.

***

The day passes much like any other day. Bilbo chats with the townspeople as they come in to shop. He and Prim take their lunch break; he’s never one to miss a meal. The day closes out and they each head home, Prim to her and Drogo’s small apartment in town, and Bilbo to his farm.

Bilbo rolls the windows down in his robin’s egg blue Beetle as he drives. The air conditioner has been broken for years, but he’s never bothered to have it fixed. The wind rustles his honey brown curls and a contented smile spreads across his face. When Bilbo gets home, he pulls the car around the circular part of the drive. He gets out and leans against the big tree that stands in the grassy patch in the middle of the drive and he watches the red Georgia sunset. He takes a deep breath and breathes in the scent of summer.

He eventually goes into the house and starts to prepare his dinner. It’s rainbow trout, caught just yesterday down at the river. Dinner for one seems like quite a lonely thing, but Bilbo doesn’t mind – not right now, anyway. Ever since his parents died, he’s been alone here at the farm, but he quite likes it. Everything’s peaceful. Everything’s quiet.

But it isn’t quiet at all. The doorbell is ringing. Bilbo gazes wistfully at his dinner, then rises from his small kitchen table and pads his way towards the front door. He wonders who could be calling at this hour. Surely most of his regular visitors are at home eating dinner with their families.

He opens the screen door to find a man standing on the porch, watching the moths and other insects fly around the porch light with some mild interest. He’s bald and has a thick but neatly kempt brown beard. Bilbo notices tattoos on his hands and arms, and even some on the top of his head. He turns when he hears the door creak open. “Dwalin, at your service,” he says, extending his hand to Bilbo.

Bilbo shakes it. The man’s grip is unusually firm, and Bilbo fears his fingers may have just been crushed. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he says, rather uncertainly. “Ah, do we know each other?” he asks after a few moments.

Dwalin levels a stare at him. Bilbo almost feels himself shrink into the door. “Not yet.”

“Well, um, come in, then,” Bilbo squeaks. He stands back to let Dwalin pass. The man swaggers into the house and turns left to go into the sitting room. Bilbo watches as his eyes roam over the windows and doors that lead to other rooms, and wonders if he’s looking for possible escape routes.

Dwalin paces around the sitting room for a minute before he takes a seat on one of the floral patterned armchairs. It takes all of Bilbo’s strength not to crack a smile at the juxtaposition of this tough man and the yellow and pink flowers behind him. Dwalin doesn’t say anything, but he cracks his knuckles and stares out of the window. Bilbo is just wondering if he should say something when the doorbell rings again.

Bilbo opens the door, and this time finds three people standing on his front porch: an older gentleman with a trim white beard and glasses, accompanied by two young men, probably college-aged by the looks of them. “Balin, at your service,” the older man says, extending his hand. His grip is firm, but not nearly as bone crushing as Dwalin’s. “These here are Fíli and Kíli,” he continues, gesturing to the other two. Fíli’s hair is thick and golden-blonde, pulled back into a low, messy bun, and he has a small, stubbly beard. Kíli’s hair is dark brown and shaggy; it frames his face in an unruly mess that ends just above his shoulders. Bilbo can see the smallest hint of five o’clock shadow on his face, but he hardly looks old enough to even be shaving. But he can see enough resemblance to tell the two are brothers. “Are we late?” Balin asks.

Bilbo looks warily at him. “Late for what?”

“Oh!” Balin says, suddenly spotting Dwalin around the corner. He pushes past Bilbo – quite uninvited – and into the house. “Evening, brother.”

Bilbo turns to look at the two young men. “Are you all relations?” he asks.

“Yeah, most of us,” Fíli says, also striding past Bilbo and into the house. Kíli follows.

“ _Most of you_? Do you mean to tell me that there’s more?”

“It’s nice, this place,” Kíli says, taking a look around. “Did you do it yourself?”

Bilbo sighs and makes a very sincere attempt not to pull his hair out. “No, it’s been in the family for years,” he says. He pads along after Fíli and Kíli and finds Balin and Dwalin poking their heads around the door that leads into the dining room. “Now, excuse me!” he squawks. He finds that he is not very fond of strangers wandering around his house.

“Oh, this will do nicely,” Balin says. “Might need a few more chairs, though.”

“ _More chairs_?” Bilbo’s voice is shrill and strained. “How many more of you are there?”

Suddenly the doorbell rings again. Bilbo lets out a growl of frustration as he stomps off towards the door. “If this is someone’s idea of a joke,” he grumbles, “I can only say that it is in very poor taste!”

He wrenches the door open without even looking to see who is on the porch this time, and immediately regrets it. A pile of men comes tumbling into the house, falling onto each other, and dragging Bilbo down with them. There’s a lot of grumbling and name-calling from the pile, but no one can quite seem to get themselves free from the entanglement of limbs.

From where Bilbo is pinned, he sees a pair of sandaled feet come up the steps and onto the porch. “I got the pizza,” Gandalf says. He shifts the fifteen – yes, count them, _fifteen_ – boxes of pizza in his arms. Then he looks down at the pile on the floor. “Oh, we’re having a picnic down there?” he says. “Groovy.”

“No. No, we’re not!” Bilbo snaps, finally managing to free himself from the pile. He stands up and brushes himself off, planting his hands firmly on his hips and leveling a cold glare at his uncle. “Would you care to explain this?” he asks.

“Well, I said I’d come back later,” Gandalf says with a shrug, causing the towering stack of pizzas to sway in a way that makes Bilbo nervous. “I think I just kinda forgot to mention the part about my friends.”

“You don’t say?” Bilbo grumbles under his breath.

Gandalf casually steps over the pile of people still on the floor and safely deposits the pizza boxes onto the kitchen counter. The smell of pizza if now wafting through the house, and that seems to be incentive enough for the pile of bodies to suddenly untangle themselves. All eight of them dive for the kitchen and immediately begin poking through cupboards and drawers and in the fridge. Bilbo can feel a conniption coming on.

“Who _are_ these people?” he asks Gandalf.

“Friends of mine,” his uncle says.

“Yes, but what are they doing in my house?”

“Eating pizza.”

Bilbo tries very hard not to throttle his uncle. He turns around to say something to his unexpected visitors, but the kitchen is empty. Confused, Bilbo goes around the corner and pokes his head into the dining room to find all twelve men seated at his long table, all stuffing themselves with pizza. A soft whimper escapes him, and he turns around to look at his uncle. “Eat up, man,” Gandalf says, handing him a plate.

The eight newest arrivals have identified themselves as Óin, Glóin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Ori. The visitors eat and talk and laugh; they all seem to know each other well enough. Gandalf sits and watches with an amused smile on his face, but Bilbo thinks it’s more likely from what he’d been smoking earlier than from the present company. And Bilbo? Well, Bilbo sits quietly in the corner and chews on his pizza with great annoyance. He usually likes visitors, but he also likes to know them before they come visiting.

He’s startled when Fíli rips the plate out of his hand and tosses it across the room to Kíli. “Excuse me – !” Bilbo starts, but his voice falters when he sees the rest of his dishes flying about the room and into the kitchen. He’s going to faint.

He makes to stand up, but Gandalf pushes his back into his seat. “Relax, man,” he says. “Just go with the flow.” A small whimper escapes Bilbo’s lips, but he remains seated, if only for the fact that he doesn’t think his legs would be able to support him at the present moment.

After a few minutes of sitting quietly, he finally finds the courage to go into the kitchen. What he sees shocks him: the visitors have cleaned up. All of the dishes are washed and in the drying rack; the counters have been wiped down and are now spotless; the pizza boxes have been broken down and piled in the corner next to the recycling bin. There’s a single plate with the last remaining slices of pizza on it wrapped neatly in saran wrap sitting on the kitchen table.

“Are we expecting someone else?” Bilbo asks weakly.

Just then, the doorbell rings. “He’s here,” Gandalf says. He goes through the archway towards the front door, Bilbo and the others following close behind.

Gandalf opens the door to reveal the final guest. The man is tall with thick, dark hair that’s pulled back in a loose ponytail; an errant braid has slipped and fallen loose from the tie. His beard is neatly trimmed, and his blue eyes stand out against the darkness of the evening. His broad chest and strong arms are evident under his dress shirt, and his sports coat is slung casually over his shoulder. “Ah, Gandalf,” he says. His voice is deep, but not unkind. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice.” He steps into the house and looks around at the others gathered there and smiles warmly at them.

“Sorry, man,” Gandalf says. “But, hey, Thorin, this is my nephew, Bilbo. You know, the one I told you about.” He turns to Bilbo. “Bilbo, I’d like you to meet Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin turns his attention to Bilbo. He looks him up and down, and Bilbo can almost feel himself melting into the floor. “So, this is your man?” Thorin says, somewhat skeptically, and Bilbo is slightly hurt by his tone. “He looks like a farmer.”

“That’s because I am, thank you very much,” Bilbo snaps.

“But with a bit of work, I dare say he’ll look like a businessman yet,” Thorin continues. This earns several snickers from the group.

“Businessman – ?” Bilbo starts. Then he wheels around on his uncle. “You haven’t told him – I didn’t say – _you insufferable idiot!_ ” But Gandalf just shrugs, a loopy smile on his face.

“Come, we have business to discuss,” Thorin says. He tilts his head towards the sitting room. “May we?”

For a moment, Bilbo is taken aback by his politeness. “Oh – yes, of course.”

Everyone shifts into the sitting room. They sprawl out on the chairs and sofa; some sit on the floor. Bilbo seats himself on the piano bench and rings his hands together. Ori scampers into the room with the plate of pizza and hands it to Thorin. It’s cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“What’s the news from New York?” Balin says once everyone is situated. “What does Dáin say?”

Thorin sighs and chews thoughtfully on his pizza. Finally, he swallows and says, “He will not come.” A wave of murmurs erupts in the room. Bilbo doesn’t entirely understand what’s going on, but he can tell that this is bad news. “He will not risk his ventures and his reputation to help us,” Thorin continues. “He has built a life for himself in New York, and I cannot blame him for not wanting to give it up. I would not either, if I were in his position.”

“It’s all good,” Gandalf says. “We’ve got Bilbo. That’s pretty rad.”

The group turns almost collectively to look at Bilbo, who lets out an annoyed laugh. “I think you’re forgetting that I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” he says. “I don’t even know what I would be agreeing to – and that is not a confirmation that I will.”

Thorin sighs and leans back into the couch. “I will tell you a story,” he says. “Some many years ago, my grandfather, Thrór, began a business in the heart of Chicago, our home. It was small at first, but he was a cunning man, and he and his business partner, a man named Tommy Azog, managed to make it grow. They bought and sold gold and precious gems and the like.”

“Arkenstone Enterprises was a force to be reckoned with,” Balin interjects.

“Indeed,” Thorin says. “But when I was born, my grandfather began to see the reason of keeping the business strictly in the family; he now had a son and a grandson to carry on the company, after all. He wrote Azog a severance check – a handsome amount, by any standards. But Azog was angry. He cursed my grandfather and told him that one day he would pay for his foolish decision. He slunk off into the shadows of the South Side, and wasn’t heard from for many years.”

“Not hide nor hair – disappeared,” Balin says.

“The company did very well,” Thorin continues. “But my grandfather wanted more. He wanted to expand the company – double its size. That’s when Smaug came in.” A shadow crosses Thorin’s face, and Bilbo can feel the atmosphere in the room immediately begin to change.

“Who’s Smaug?” Bilbo asks hesitantly.

“Gordon Smaug was a _‘businessman’_ out of Milwaukee,” Thorin says. “A good for nothing gangster who destroyed every respectable business he ever touched.”

“And he got to yours?”

“He and my grandfather made a deal. They were to be equal partners in the company. And for a while my grandfather got what he had wanted – the business did indeed double. But what he didn’t know was about Smaug’s dealings behind his back. Smaug had secretly switched all of the company’s holdings into a private account in his name. Much of the work was thanks to Chadwick Murray, Smaug’s personal financial adviser.”

“The Great Goblin,” Dwalin growls. This elicits laughter from many in the room, but Thorin’s face remains hard and set.

“That bastard would never leave his basement if he could help it,” Thorin grumbles. “All of Smaug’s schemings left my family penniless. Our whole fortune had been sunk into that company. By the time my grandfather realized what had happened, it was too late. Smaug had completely shut him out from his own company.”

“I - I’m sorry to hear,” Bilbo says.

“My grandfather was angry,” Thorin says. “Smaug had taken everything from him, so he decided to strike back. He left one night to kill Smaug, and my younger brother, Frerin, went with him, against my father’s orders.” Thorin stops and swallows hard. “But they never made it. They were on their way when Tommy Azog crept out of the shadows for his revenge. He shot my grandfather and my brother in cold blood.” Thorin pauses again, and Bilbo sees his eyes sweep over Fíli and Kíli. “Frerin was only a boy,” he says weakly. “No older than these two.” The brothers look solemn.

“I’m so very sorry,” Bilbo says, “but I still don’t understand where I come in to all of this.”

Thorin looks quite unable to talk at the moment, so Gandalf steps in. “Well, we’ve decided that it’s high -” he pauses to giggle after this word - “time that Thorin got his company back. But we needed someone who Smaug doesn’t know, you know?”

Bilbo stares blankly at him. “No, I don’t.”

“Smaug knows my face only too well,” Thorin says. “And he knows all who have helped me throughout the years.” He gestures around the room to the other men. “We have a plan, but we would be unable to carry through with it ourselves. We need someone to help us, someone we can trust, and Gandalf has suggested you.”

Bilbo eyes him warily. “And how would I be helping you, exactly?”

“We need someone to pitch a business deal to Smaug, something he can’t resist,” Thorin explains. “Smaug likes the fineries of life. He wants only the best. He sees my family’s company as of an extension of himself, no doubt, and I am willing to bet that his love of fine things will carry through to the company.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says, “but what fine things are we talking about here?”

Thorin looks at him a moment, as if trying to decipher if Bilbo is joking or not. “Organic produce,” he says slowly. “Is that not what you grow here?”

“Yes, but – ” Bilbo splutters. No, no, this is getting out of control. “I sell what I grow. It doesn’t get shipped anywhere but into town to be sold at the family store. And why would I ever want to sell my crops to a man such as Smaug?”

“Because it’s the bait,” Dwalin says.

Bilbo makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Bait?”

“We need a way to get a man on the inside,” Balin explains patiently. “We need Smaug to make a deal, and we need that deal to be with someone who is with us. And once you’re in, you might be able to find the documentation that we need to prove what Smaug’s done to Thorin’s family and the company.”

“This is insane,” Bilbo mutters. “And what happens if Smaug figures out what’s going on? If I’m caught, what then, hmm?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about farming ever again,” Bofur says, a little too cheerfully for Bilbo’s liking.

“Please, Mr. Baggins, we need your help,” Kíli says. His eyes are wide, and they pull at Bilbo’s heart. As he looks at the young man, he almost says yes.

“You do realize what you’re asking me to do?” Bilbo says slowly, fixing his gaze now on Thorin.

“Yes,” Thorin says solemnly. The word is heavy, and Bilbo can almost feel the years of pain that it carries with it.

Bilbo notices just how stunningly blue Thorin’s eyes are. Suddenly, every line of worry on his face and every small streak of gray in his hair and beard are prominent in the soft glow from the sitting room lamps. Something stirs inside of Bilbo, but he’s not quite sure what it is.

“I’ll have to think,” he says softly, his voice barely anything above a whisper.

“Fair enough,” Thorin says steadily.

Bilbo shakes his head and tries to blink away the fog that seems to have settled around his vision. “Please, you’ll all stay here tonight,” he says, remembering his manners as a proper host. “I have several guest rooms, and there are couches, and I’m sure I will be able to find some sleeping bags in the basement.”

“That is very kind,” Thorin says.

Bilbo gets to work readying the guest rooms and hauling out extra pillows and blankets from the linen closet. The men stay in the sitting room, speaking in hushed tones. Soon all the rooms are ready and the guests settled. Gandalf has fallen asleep across the sofa in the sitting room, and Bilbo hasn’t the heart to move him.

Eventually, Bilbo settles down in his own bed, his mind much too full for sleep. He can hear Thorin singing quietly to himself from the guest room next door. Bilbo can’t make out any words, but the song is slow and sad. Bilbo drifts off to sleep with the tune still running through his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo opens his eyes and yawns. He squints in the brightness that is filling the room. He forgot to pull the curtains last night and now the sun is shining bright and cheery through the window. He grumbles about the unwelcome wake up call, and wonders why on earth he would have forgotten to do that. It’s not as if he has a house full of strangers to worry about.

Oh, but he does.

Bilbo dresses quickly and scampers down the stairs. The house is unnaturally quiet, and it makes him nervous. He pokes his head into the sitting room, but finds no one there; it’s the same case in the study. Bilbo thinks that they must have gone into the kitchen, but again, the room is empty.

He wonders if perhaps it was all a dream. Really, it is quite a thought that thirteen strangers should have invaded his house last night and asked for his help with their desperate plan to take back a stolen company. But then he notices the pizza boxes still in the corner next to the recycling bin, and he knows that he did not imagine it.

He slumps slowly into one of the chairs at his kitchen table and buries his head in his arms. He feels almost… disappointed that his house is empty. The feeling surprises him. His right arm brushes against something papery, and he turns his head to see a folded note under a half-finished mug of coffee. He lifts the note up and tries his best to ignore the stained ring of coffee across the top of it. It’s addressed to him.

_Dear Mr. Baggins,_

_We thank you for your kind hospitality last evening, and for your consideration in aiding us with our task. If you should indeed decide to join us, we will be waiting in town at the Green Dragon until 11am this morning. We trust that you will be punctual. Upon arrival, you will be provided with full contract. Most sincerely hoping to see you._

_Deeply yours, Thorin & Co._

For several moments Bilbo sits in stunned silence. He’s thinking nothing and everything at the same time. He looks at the clock. 10:30.

It’s then when he makes his decision.

Within the half hour, Bilbo hastily packs his things into a small suitcase and closes up the house. He runs next door and leaves instructions with the Gaffer for the running of the farm. The poor man gapes open mouthed and nods. Bilbo drives to town at a much faster speed than he would normally deem acceptable. He pops his head into the store and finds Prim behind the front counter.

“Prim, this is as good a time as ever to tell you that you’ve been promoted,” Bilbo says.

Prim stares at him. “Promoted?”

“Yes, as in you’ll be running the shop from now on.”

Prim is silent for a few seconds. Bilbo can tell she’s processing. “And why won’t _you_ be running the shop anymore?” she asks slowly.

“Because I’m leaving,” Bilbo says. He flashes her a smile and drops his car keys on the counter, then grabs his suitcase and turns to head out of the shop.

“Where are you off to?” Prim calls after him.

“I’m going on an adventure!”

“But – ”

“I’ll text you!”

Bilbo arrives, panting, outside of the Green Dragon at precisely 11 o’clock. Balin is waiting for him at the door. “There’s a good lad,” he says, smiling through his white beard. “I knew you’d come.”

Bilbo follows him inside to find the rest of the party and his uncle seated in the lounge area next to the bar. “Ah, Bilbo!” Gandalf says. “You’re here! Right on!” He’s slouched in an armchair with his feet propped up on an overturned bar stool. There’s a pipe hanging out of his mouth. Bilbo can only imagine what must be in there.

Bilbo looks around and takes in the rest of the group. Some are smiling, some grimacing at his sudden appearance. He can’t help but notice that there’s a fair amount of money passing between hands, accompanied by some minor grumblings.

“Give him the contract.” This comes from Thorin, who is standing on the outskirts of the group, arms folded across his chest, and a somewhat unreadable expression on his face.

Balin reaches into his jacket and pulls out a rather thick document. “It’s just the usual,” he says, a tad bit too casually for Bilbo’s liking. “Summary of out of pocket expenses, time required, remunerations, funeral arrangements, so forth.”

A small squeak escapes Bilbo. “Funeral arrangements?” he repeats weakly.

“Aye,” Balin says quickly, “we just like to be sure we have all our bases covered. Always be prepared for the worst, that sort of thing.”

Bilbo scans through the document quickly. It’s quite a bit more than he expected, really; these guys seem to know what they’re doing (and Balin is, in fact, a lawyer, as he’s later told). Finally, he takes the pen that Balin holds out for him and quickly scribbles his name on the dotted line. Balin takes the contract back, winking at Bilbo as he does. As the contract leaves his hand, Bilbo feels something almost… settle in his chest. It’s some kind of understanding, he thinks, about what he has just agreed to. But that doesn’t stop him from wondering what he’s just done.

“Uber’s here!” Kíli shouts, pumping a fist into the air, and breaking the moment for Bilbo.

Fíli curses quietly under his breath, still staring at his phone in his hand. “Drive faster next time, you bastard,” he mutters. “I don’t like losing bets to this little shit.” He reaches into his pocket to dig around for something, but comes up short. He looks at his brother. “Can I Venmo you?”

Once the second Uber arrives, there’s a good deal of scuffling and trying to shove everyone’s bags into trunks, and a good deal of arguing about who’s going in which van. Bilbo finds himself crammed in the back of one, sandwiched between Thorin and Bofur. Bifur sits quietly on Bofur’s left, staring absently out of the window. Nori and Ori are seated in the next row up. Ori is happily showing his brother a few pages from his sketchbook. “You know, if we could get our guy to do these on canvas and then beat ‘em up a little, we might be able to pass them off as eighteenth-century…” Nori muses. Kíli is in the front seat, having proclaimed himself official DJ, chatting animatedly with the driver as he plugs his phone into the aux cord.

It’s not the most comfortable ride to the airport that Bilbo’s ever had, to say the least. When they finally arrive, Balin doles out boarding passes for everyone. To Bilbo’s surprise, he’s handed one as well. “How did you know I’d say yes?” he asks, turning the piece of paper over in his hands in amazement.

“Let’s just call it a good feeling,” Balin says, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

The group eventually bumbles their way through security. Fíli looks rather put out as Thorin makes him throw three separate pocket knives discreetly into the trash can ahead of the TSA agents. Gandalf looks supremely uncomfortable at the large security presence - in fact, Bilbo notices that most of his companions are shifting about rather nervously. Dwalin, in particular, keeps cracking his knuckles menacingly and glaring at anyone who dares to look at him for just a second too long.

Once they all make it through the line and manage to find their gate, several of the group disperse, having some time to kill before boarding. Bilbo chooses to sit quietly, taking the opportunity to text Prim a quick apology and some instructions for the store while he’s away. After a while, he’s interrupted by someone taking a seat next to him. It’s Thorin.

“Here,” he says, handing Bilbo a small coffee and a pastry bag from Starbucks. “You probably haven’t eaten today. I took a guess on the danish, and Gandalf’s told me how you take your coffee.”

“T-thank you,” Bilbo stutters, momentarily taken aback. He chews thoughtfully on his danish for a minute as the other man settles into the seat next to him, blowing on his own coffee to cool it down. Finally, Bilbo gathers the courage to speak. “How exactly did you find me, Thorin?” he asks. “I mean, you and Gandalf seem to know each other well enough. Tell me, how did you get tangled up in his mess?” He laughs softly to himself, casting his eyes over to this uncle, who seems to have fallen asleep in his seat on the other side of the waiting area.

Thorin sighs. “It’s a long story,” he says. He, too, glances over at Gandalf. “He’s a mess, I’ll admit. But an endearing one. We met several years ago, at Bofur’s pub, actually. I was running a… _job_ that wasn’t going smoothly that night. In fact, it might have ended very badly for me if your uncle hadn’t stepped in. After that, he just kept coming around, and soon enough a friendship was struck between us.”

“I had no idea he was in Chicago when he wasn’t bothering me,” Bilbo says, letting out a breath, and smiling slightly.

“He talks about you quite often,” Thorin says, this time a little quieter. Bilbo turns to look at him. “What a coincidence that he should happen to be related to the man who’s perfect for the job we have to do. Almost like magic.” As he meets Bilbo’s gaze, his eyes widen for a moment, as if he realizes that what he’s just said had in fact been out loud. “If you believe in that sort of nonsense, anyway,” he adds quickly.

Bilbo nods accordingly. “Magical indeed,” he mutters.

***

It’s a short flight from Atlanta to Chicago. Once everyone has gathered their luggage from baggage claim, the group splits; it’s mostly brothers leaving in pairs, and at the end, it’s Thorin, Bilbo, Fíli, Kíli, and Gandalf left behind.

“Are you coming with us?” Thorin asks Gandalf as they wait for their Uber.

“Nah, man,” Gandalf says. “Gotta go see a guy about some stuff first. Anyway, Radagast’s in town. I’ll crash with him tonight.”

Gandalf waves goodbye as the other four climb into their Uber and it drives away. As Thorin had explained earlier, Bilbo was welcome to stay in his spare bedroom as long as he wanted, an idea to which Bilbo was immediately amenable; he did not quite like the idea of having to front up for a hotel room while he was here.

Soon the Uber is pulling away, and Bilbo finds himself standing in front of a handsome white townhouse on a quiet side street. Brick steps with black iron railings lead up to the front door; there are terracotta pots on the top step with yellow flowers in them. Fíli and Kíli rush ahead inside, banging the black front door open as they go. “After you, Mr. Baggins,” Thorin says with a slight nod of his head.

“Please, you can just call me Bilbo.” Thorin nods again, this time gesturing Bilbo forward. Bilbo climbs up the front steps and walks into the house. The entryway floor is green marble, and so is the half-spiral staircase leading up to the second level. On the right Bilbo can see a small study through a half opened doorway; on the left is a bathroom. The kitchen is dead ahead. The walls are covered with paintings, and there’s an ornate table with mail and whatnot on it that Bilbo suspects might be worth about the same as one of his tractors.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he says as Thorin closes the front door.

“This was a down-size, believe it or not,” Thorin says with a half-hearted laugh. Bilbo turns to stare at him, wondering freshly just who Thorin Oakenshield really is. “I had to find a way to put these two through college -” he nods up at Fíli and Kíli, who are pushing each other in a fight to get up the stairs first - “and selling the family house seemed like the best option.” He trails off, looking up after the boys, who have disappeared at the top of the stairs.

“So they live with you, then?” Bilbo asks.

“Part time,” Thorin says, snapping to. “Their mother lives just outside of the city. This is a shorter commute to school for them, so they’re here during the fall and spring semesters. In the summer they can go where they choose. Dís has been trying to encourage Fíli to get a place of his own now that he’s done with school, so he’s been here more often than not, trying to avoid that argument with her, I suspect. And where one goes the other one will undoubtedly follow, so Kíli’s been kicking around as well. But I don’t have the heart to send Fíli packing. And besides, I quite like the company.”

“Good-cop-bad-cop,” Bilbo says with a chuckle. “Play one parent against the other, and get a free place to stay out of it.”

Thorin stares at him a moment, then suddenly lets out a bark of laughter. “They’re my nephews,” he says, a smile breaking over his face, “not my sons. I have no role to play in this besides the doting uncle, which often makes me more guilty than I ought to be by my sister’s reasoning.”

“Oh,” is all Bilbo can think of to say at the moment, his face growing hot with embarrassment. “I - I didn’t mean -”

“An easy mistake to make,” Thorin says quickly, sensing Bilbo’s discomfort at the awkward conversation he’s just bumbled his way into.

“Is their father… out of the picture?” Bilbo asks hesitantly.

Thorin sighs. “Helicopter crash. Iraq, 2003.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bilbo says quietly.

“So am I,” Thorin says. “They were so young when he died. I’m not quite sure that Kíli even remembers him, but he’ll never admit it. After it happened, I moved back here from New York where I had been working for my cousin Dáin to help out. I had my sister and the boys move into the house my father had left me, and we did the best we could to raise them together.”

“Family’s obviously very important to you,” Bilbo says.

Thorin smiles weakly. “It is,” he says. “Those two boys are the reason that I want to take down Smaug - and the reason that you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
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> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!


	3. Chapter 3

“Where are we going, exactly?” Bilbo asks, nearly jogging to keep up with Thorin’s long strides as he leads them down the street. Fíli and Kíli are about half a block ahead of them (“There’s a Bulbasaur up on the corner and I need it!” - “Please, Kí, you’re the only person I know still playing that fucking Pokémon game.”)

“Bofur’s pub,” Thorin says. “We’re almost there.”

And soon enough they find themselves outside of a nondescript looking establishment. Above a door whose green paint is chipped and peeling there’s a wooden sign that reads ‘Ered Luin’ in faded gold lettering. Half-curtains on the front windows make it a bit hard to see inside, but they don’t stop a cheery, warm light from escaping over their tops that brightens the sidewalk outside in the gathering dusk. Bifur is standing outside the door. He nods to the four new arrivals and opens the door for them, fist bumping Fíli and Kíli as they go past, and nodding respectfully at Thorin and Bilbo as they follow.

Bilbo’s eyes can’t help but linger on the ugly scar on Bifur’s forehead as he goes by. “How did he get that scar?” he asks Thorin as they enter the pub.

“He was shot,” Thorin says quietly. “Took a nine millimeter point blank in the head and lived to tell the tale. Well, that is, if you can understand him - his speech is rather fragmented now. But he signs if he really needs something. Bofur can interpret for you if need be; he’s picked up signing rather quickly since the incident.”

“Shot?!” Bilbo squeaks. “By who?”

Thorin hesitates a moment, then finally says, “It’s not my story to tell.”

Before Bilbo can press the subject any further, Bofur suddenly appears in front of them. “Glad you gents could make it,” he says, clasping each of them on the shoulder. “Take a seat at the bar. Bombur’ll throw something together for you to eat - he’s frying up a fresh batch of pickles right now, I think. Oh, and I’d put your money on Wildfire, if you know what I mean.” He glances up at the TVs above the bar, which are currently displaying some horse racing stats, a wicked smile spreading across his face. He bounces off behind the bar.

Thorin and Bilbo take a seat in the middle of the bar. Bilbo turns around to take in his surroundings. The pub is small, with a handful of tables and chairs scattered about. The wooden bar is on the right hand side of the room, and there are TVs mounted on the wall above it, plus two more on the opposite wall. Bilbo peers to his left, and he can just make out the entrance to the kitchen down at the end of the bar; Bombur is back there, stirring an immense pot that has steam rising out of it. There’s a few other patrons inside who Bilbo doesn’t recognize, as well as some that he does. Glóin is standing in the back left corner near a partially closed door, his arms folded over his chest. Bilbo can hear Óin on the other side of it, yelling at someone to “Keep still, goddamnit!” Fíli and Kíli are tearing about the room, playing some kind of game with a young boy who has the same red hair as Glóin; Bilbo can only assume that it’s his son.

Bofur slides a pint of beer towards Bilbo and a glass of red wine towards Thorin. “Last call for bets,” he announces to the room. “Race’s about to begin.”

“Watch this,” Thorin says quietly with a smirk. He grabs a betting ticket off of the bar, scribbles on it quickly, then hands it to Bofur. Bilbo thinks he sees Bofur wink at them, but he’s not quite sure. Two more patrons shuffle up to the bar and hand over tickets.

Bilbo glances up towards the TV as the race begins. He’s never been particularly fond of horse racing, perhaps because he grew up with them on the farm. He thinks the sport, if one can call it that, is a bit cruel; horses should be given the pasture space to run freely, in his good opinion. He watches with mild interest as Thorin’s horse stays mid-pack for most of the race, then surges forward at the last second, taking the victory. There’s a good deal of grumbling from the other patrons. “Well, that’s that, lads,” Bofur says, a cheeky smile on his face. “Better luck next time.”

“How did - ” Bilbo starts, but Thorin holds up a hand, silencing him. It’s not until the other men who had placed bets on the race have thrown their money on the bar stumbled out of the pub that he speaks.

“It’s not a real race,” Thorin says quietly. “They’re not even real horses.”

Bilbo squints up at the TV. “No…How…?” he asks in amazement.

“Art school drop-out,” Bofur says with a chuckle, raising a hand almost proudly. He slides the newly delivered cash over to Thorin, who pockets it. “You just need to know a bit about graphic design and how to make a convincing video, and poof - you’ve got yourself a steady stream of cash coming in on the side.”

“This con man had been taking my money for a long time,” Thorin says. “So one night I got him drunk enough to reveal what he was really up to.”

“Lucky for me he was more amazed than angry,” Bofur chimes in.

“Instead of punching his lights out as I might have when I was younger, I hired him on the spot,” Thorin says.

“Uh, I prefer the term ‘entered into a business partnership with,’” Bofur corrects. “Or, ‘befriended’ works if you’re a bit short on time.” Bilbo watches as Bofur leans over the bar and he and Thorin gently knock their foreheads together in what he suspects to be some kind of endearing ritual.

“I still don’t quite understand,” Bilbo stammers. Is there something he’s missing here?

“It’s simple, really,” Bofur says. “We need cash, we rig the race so that the house wins. We need to move some dirty money out of here, we run a race where the house throws down on one horse, and all you need in order to win is for that horse to lose. And the idiots that come in here are usually pissed out of their minds to the point that they never notice that it’s all a fake.” Bofur smiles proudly.

Before Bilbo can get so much as another word in, there’s a great commotion from the back of the pub. “The next time you get shot, you come to me straight away, you understand? Not three days after the fact, you nimrod!” Óin is shouting at a young man who is scampering out of the back room and towards the front door. Bilbo can see a first aid kit in Óin’s hand.

Before the man can get too far, however, Glóin grabs him by his (good) arm. “You wouldn’t be leaving without properly thanking your doctor, now would you?” he growls. The man gulps, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled bill, which he hands to Glóin. “Thank you for your kind donation,” Glóin says, roughly letting the man go. He bolts for the front door.

“Thorin, what is this place?” Bilbo asks quietly, his mind suddenly racing in a million different directions all at once.

“It’s a pub,” Thorin says, nonplused. “You have heard of a pub before, right?”

Before Bilbo can open his mouth to retort, Bofur reappears behind the bar from the kitchen with two steaming bowls in his hands and a plate balanced in the crook of his arm. “Eat up, lads,” he says as he places the bowls down in front of them. “Bombur’s cooked up some of his special chili tonight. Vegetarian, of course.” He nods at Thorin. “And a plate of fried pickles, as promised.”

While Bilbo eats his dinner quietly, a little too stunned for conversation at the moment, Dori, Nori, and Ori appear and sit down at a table, arguing amongst themselves about something Bilbo can’t quite make out. Shortly after, Bifur hangs a sign that says ‘Closed’ on the front door, and stumps off to help Bombur in the kitchen, croaking out a rather stilted stream of obscenities as he goes. Thorin inclines his head in Bifur’s direction and looks at Bilbo, as if to imply ‘See what I mean?’

Soon Thorin finishes his dinner and moves down to the end of the bar to talk quietly to Bofur. Bilbo takes the opportunity to slip out the front door, cell phone in hand. He screws up the courage to finally say out loud what he’s been thinking for the last several minutes as he dials his uncle.

“Hey, man,” Gandalf answers after several rings.

“Gandalf - ” Bilbo begins, only to find that the words are indeed reluctant to come out. He clears his throat, casting his eyes around to see if anyone is listening in on his conversation, before trying again. “Gandalf, what exactly is it that Thorin does for work?”

“I like to call him a collector,” Gandalf says. “Or a director, depending on the day.” Bilbo can hear the quiet crackle of what he assumes is a joint on the other end of the line, followed by a long exhale. He rolls his eyes.

“Yes, but what does he collect, exactly?” Bilbo presses. Or maybe the question should really have been who does he collect.

“Con men, if you want to cut to the heart of it,” Gandalf says. “But I like to think of them more as people who exercise their right to work outside of the law.”

“So you are telling me that you’ve gone and hooked me up with a bunch of criminals?” Bilbo hisses.

“Yeah, did I not mention that?” Gandalf asks.

“No!”

“Yeah, okay, that one’s on me - that’s by bad,” Gandalf says. “But Thorin’s cool, I promise.”

“Did you really just try to tell me that breaking the law is ‘cool?’” Bilbo asks in disbelief. “And what about this grand scheme to take back his stolen company, hmm? I thought Smaug was the only criminal involved in this.”

“Think of it like Thorin’s Robin Hood,” Gandalf says. “It’s like the little criminal stealing from the big, bad criminal who’s fucking over a lot more people than Thorin ever will.”

“Gandalf, I have been in Chicago for less than twenty four hours and I have already been around more crime than I have in the past few decades of my life,” Bilbo says, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “I wouldn’t exactly call the scope of the con that Thorin and Bofur are running out of this pub ‘little.’ If only you’d been here to see what I have witnessed so far tonight, you wouldn’t be arguing with me right now.” A beat goes by and Gandalf says nothing, which makes Bilbo’s heart sink. “Don’t tell me you’re in on this,” he says quietly.

“Well - ”

Bilbo doesn’t wait for him to finish that thought. He angrily smashes his finger against the ‘end call’ button and jams his phone back into his pocket. He then bends forward and places his hands on his knees and lets out a long breath.

“You alright, laddie?”

Bilbo whips around to see Balin and Dwalin approaching.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo says quickly, straightening up. “Just feeling a bit faint, is all.”

Dwalin roughly claps a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. There’s a look in his eye that gives Bilbo the uneasy feeling that Dwalin might have guessed why he was out here alone. “You might feel better with a stiff drink in you.” Taking this more as an implied instruction rather than a suggestion, Bilbo nods, and lets himself be led back inside by Dwalin.

As Bilbo sits back down at the bar, his phone vibrates with a text inside of his pocket. He pulls it out, and sees that it’s from Gandalf:

_You signed the contract._

Bilbo feels his stomach drop. He shoves the phone away again, refusing to acknowledge that his uncle did in fact have a valid point - he had merely skimmed over the contract this morning, quite caught up in the moment and the excitement of the prospect of running off into the blue to be part of something meaningful.

He spins about in his seat to look around the pub again. Fíli and Kíli are eating their dinner together and laughing about something, two incredible smiles plastered on their faces. Glóin’s son has fallen asleep on his lap at another table; Óin is asleep in the chair next to him. Dori, Nori, and Ori are still sitting together. Nori is ruffling Ori’s hair fondly, and Dori is trying to swat the two of them apart. Bofur has disappeared into the kitchen to help his brother and cousin. Balin and Dwalin are settling some small argument with an arm wrestling match on the bar. And Thorin? Bilbo looks around, seeming to have momentarily lost the leader of this odd company - or, rather, _family_ , Bilbo corrects himself. Yes, that is the word that he thinks best suits what he is looking at.

“What are you drinking?”

Bilbo nearly jumps out of his skin as Thorin appears suddenly in front of him on the other side of the bar; evidently he’d been digging around behind the counter for something in one of the lower cabinets. “Um, whatever you feel like making,” Bilbo says, still a bit too startled to really think properly at present.

Thorin looks at him a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching up in just the smallest hint of a smile. He reaches for a bottle of Basil Hayden, and slings together two Old Fashioneds, pushing one towards Bilbo and the other towards the empty seat to his left. He then hauls himself up and over the bar and slides into said empty seat.

Bilbo stirs his drink a bit absently, casting his eyes around the room once more. “Now the better question,” Thorin says, breaking the cloud around Bilbo’s head. “What are you thinking?”

Bilbo opens his mouth, then closes it. What he wants to tell Thorin is that, as annoyed as he was earlier in the night, as shocked and surprised and whatever else you want to call it that he was at what he saw happening here - it’s gone now, all of it. Because what he’s seeing right now, the energy that he’s feeling in this room - all the kindness that he’s been shown by, what are, in reality, complete strangers to him, has been so overwhelming that he doesn’t quite have words for it. The sense of family that seems so obviously embraced by everyone in this room - so natural - is something that, until now, Bilbo hadn’t been aware that he’d been missing.

“What I think,” he says instead, looking up at Thorin, “is that we’re going to be just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!


	4. Chapter 4

“That’s not fair - that’s against the rules!” Bilbo howls as he wipes a smear of mashed potatoes from his face. Fíli and Kíli are nearly choked with laughter, and Gimli is smiling proudly from where he is crouched several tables away, some evidence of the offending potatoes still stuck to his hand. Despite his exaggerated display of being put out at being ‘tagged’ in this rather unconventional way, Bilbo can’t help but crack a smile.

“Gimli, I’d normally tell you to eat your food instead of throwing it,” Glóin interjects, “but good shot, my boy!” He beams at his small son.

Gracefully accepting his defeat, Bilbo takes refuge at the bar. It’s been two weeks since he first arrived in Chicago, and he was ready to admit (which surprised even himself, if he was being totally honest) that Bofur’s pub was beginning to feel like a second home. The company, as the group had jokingly begun to call themselves, spent most nights here, sometimes planning, sometimes just drinking together. Gandalf and his boyfriend, Radagast, would occasionally make an appearance, though Bilbo suspected that their visits were less about being helpful to the company’s cause and more about the fact that they could drink for free at the bar.

Because ‘cause’ was now a word that Bilbo found quite fitting for Thorin’s plan to take back his family’s company. While it had quickly become apparent to Bilbo that Thorin had quite a bit as things currently stood - a lovely home, good friends, a steady business (though Bilbo still found himself hesitating just a bit on this word when describing what went on at the pub) - Thorin still believed that he could do more. Not necessarily for himself, Bilbo now understood, but for Fíli and Kíli. Thorin so desperately wanted control over Arkenstone Enterprises for them, to give them a better life. And Bilbo found the whole notion to be quite honorable, really.

“What about this?” Bofur spins the laptop he’s been working on around to show Thorin something.

Thorin looks for a moment, then nods. “That could work,” he says. “Do we have a printer we could go through? Discreetly.”

“I know a guy,” Nori pipes up from somewhere behind the bar.

“I counted the pint glasses this morning,” Bofur warns gently without even looking up from his laptop. “I know exactly how many are down there, you little rat.” Nori’s head pops up as he glares indignantly at Bofur, and Bilbo can’t help but laugh.

Suddenly the front door to the pub bursts open. “Thorin Oakenshield!”

“Oh, shit.”

Bilbo whips around to look at the new arrival and has to do a double take. A woman who looks extraordinary like Thorin is striding towards the bar. She’s small, and her dark hair is pulled back in a low bun; there’s something about the look in her eyes, though, that makes Bilbo want to shrink into the bar stool he’s seated on. And judging by the expression on Thorin’s face, he’s also experiencing a very similar sensation right about now.

“Why am I not surprised to find you sitting around this bar - ” she throws a slightly dirty look at Bofur here - “at two in the afternoon?”

“I’m working!” Thorin splutters defensively, gesturing wildly towards Bofur and Bilbo, as if they somehow might help him prove a point.

The newcomer turns her eyes to Bilbo. “Who is this?”

“Bilbo, I’d like you to meet my sister, Dís,” Thorin says.

Dís looks Bilbo up and down. “So, this is your man?”

“Yes,” Thorin says curtly. Then suddenly the color rises in his cheeks and his eyes widen. “Well - not _my_ man, I mean. He is - ” His face is bright red now and he’s spluttering badly. Dís only raises an eyebrow at him, choosing to let him flounder instead of stepping in to help him. “He’s the guy that I want - I mean… _fuck_.” Bilbo can feel his cheeks flushing too as Thorin looks at him helplessly. Momentarily rendered useless by secondhand embarrassment for Thorin, Bilbo offers no words.

“Yes, he’s the guy who’s gonna do one over on Smaug for us,” Bofur chimes in helpfully. He’s looking pointedly at his laptop and not at the terribly awkward scene that’s playing out in front of him, but Bilbo can’t help but notice the ghost of a cheeky smile on his lips.

Dís locks her eyes onto Bilbo once more, nodding curtly. “And you two!” she shouts suddenly. “Just where do you think you’re off to?”

Bilbo looks over her shoulder to see that Fíli and Kíli have attempted to make a run for it towards the back room. They’re halfway between their table and the door, hunkered down low to the floor, guilty expressions on their faces.

Fíli is the first to straighten up, running a hand nervously over the back of his neck and he steps towards the bar. “Mom - so nice of you to drop in.”

“Yeah, what a nice surprise,” Kíli adds, coming over to join his brother.

“Bullshit,” is the only thing Dís says. Then her eyes stray over to the table that the boys have just vacated. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath, then rounds on her brother. “What is in those two pint glasses over there?” she asks very quietly. Bilbo almost would have prefered to have her shouting again in comparison to this new tone; it reminds him of the way his mother would ask him if he knew why all of the chickens had disappeared from their pen when he was little (though, _of course_ , he’d been a good child who _never_ had anything to do with that). He does not envy Thorin right now.

“Um - ” Thorin stalls, clearly caught in the act and quite unsure what to do about it.

“He’s not even twenty one yet!” Dís yells, causing everyone around her to shrink back slightly.

“I will be in a few weeks - ” Kíli protests, but his mother holds up a finger to silence him.

“You should know better, Thorin,” Dís scolds. “You can’t keep treating them like they’re your mates. They’re your nephews, and you need to be a better role model for them. And you need to not get them drunk in the middle of the day.”

Thorin looks as if he might have finally found some words, but just as he opens his mouth, the front door swings open once again, and Balin strolls in. “And you!” Dís howels, nearly beside herself now, jabbing a finger in Balin’s direction, which causes him to stop dead in his tracks. “You might be the worst of the lot! You told me you’d be in meetings all afternoon. My own boss, lying to me and sneaking off to get drunk with my irresponsible brother in the middle of the afternoon!”

“In my defense,” Balin says, which elicits a snort from Dís, “I do have a meeting. It just happens to be taking place here... in the place you’re not supposed to be.” He finishes weakly, looking quite deject and apologetic.

“Three generations of stupid,” Dís mumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. Bilbo catches Thorin and Fíli making nearly identical expressions of indignation out of the corner of his eye, and he almost dares to smile at this. Almost.

“Well, Bilbo, we’d better get going,” Nori cuts in suddenly, hopping up and over the bar and grabbing Bilbo by the collar of his shirt. “We’ve gotta go see that guy, remember? About that thing?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo stutters, actually quite glad for some excuse to slip out of what he’s sure is just the beginning of what was going to be a very intense family argument. “Uh, we’ll see everyone later. Dís - lovely to meet you.” He makes to reach out to shake her hand, but Nori jerks him roughly along, and Bilbo ends up stumbling quite ungracefully after him and out of the pub. As soon as the door closes behind him, he can hear the unmistakable eruption of several voices all shouting over each other at once.

Nori chuckles. “You could not pay me to try to smooth things over between that lot,” he says. “And I’ve been paid to do _a lot_ of things in my life.” Bilbo glances side-long at him, but chooses not to dig any further into that comment.

“So where are we off to, now that you’ve whisked me away from any potential danger?” Bilbo asks with a small laugh of his own. “You know, we did leave poor Bofur in there.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Nori says, waving a hand as if brushing away the thought. “And I actually did have something that I wanted you to come take a look at in the shop. It’s just a quick walk, couple of blocks up. Figured now was as good a time as any to bring you ‘round.”

The pair make their way along, chatting idly with each other, until they finally arrive at their destination. The shop front features a large bay window with white trim, which exhibits a variety of antique items on display. To its right is the navy blue front door, upon which ‘The Brothers Ri’ is painted in silver in an elegant, sloped font. Nori holds the door open for Bilbo, and a little bell chimes as he steps across the threshold.

The inside of the shop is a maze of crisp, white shelves and tables, all displaying items for sale. The walls are painted the same shade of white, and with the contrast of the navy tiled floor, it almost appears as some of the items are floating in mid-air. It’s nothing that Bilbo would have suspected of Nori, but the place looks so much like Dori that Bilbo has to suppress a laugh. Speaking of which, Dori comes bustling out of a back room to greet them, with Ori trailing behind, typing something into an iPAD as he goes.

“Bilbo, what a nice surprise,” Dori says, a smile spreading across his face.

“Dor, is it in the back?” Nori asks.

Dori gestures for Nori to follow him, and the two disappear into the back room. Bilbo takes the chance to look around, strolling about with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the store’s collection in a bit of wonder. He inspects a pair of antique pistols, which are displayed next to a small canvas that looks as if a kindergartener had simply smeared some paint around on it; the only way Bilbo knows it isn’t is from the alarming price plaque that sits next to it. A splendid blue and gold tapestry hanging on the wall catches his eye. There are intricate geometric shapes woven into it, and the gold thread sparkles if it catches the light just right. A shelf next to that is littered with a wide variety of jewels and glass figurines.

“Most of it’s fake, you know.” Bilbo turns to see Ori, still typing away on his iPAD, looking mildly disinterested. “Nori finds this stuff - god knows where - and brings it in. I give it some creative backstory and a price, and Dori dresses it up and bit and then convinces people to buy it.” He looks up, as if gauging Bilbo’s reaction to his rather blunt description of their business operations.

Bilbo makes only a small attempt to hide his grimace. Honestly, what else had he expected from Thorin’s friends? “Well, you’ve got to make a living somehow, I suppose,” he says airly, rocking back on his heels a bit as his eyes continue to roam about the room. They linger a bit on the jewels.

“Not those, though,” Ori says, softer this time. Bilbo looks up, feeling his face flush just a bit at being caught staring. “Those are real. Dori tells me that our mom used to sell them to Arkenstone Enterprises, before, well… you know.” He looks quickly back down at the iPAD. “It was an entirely respectable business, once.”

“Excuse you, I am a very _well respected_ thief, I’d have you know,” Nori says, reappearing from the back room.

Dori trails behind him, holding a garment bag up off of the floor as he walks. “Come have a look at this, Bilbo,” he says, laying the bag out on the front counter and unzipping it. Inside is a stunning dark blue suit.

“It’s Armani,” Nori says. “And the real stuff, this time. You wouldn't believe the idiot I got this off of.” Bilbo swallows a bit nervously as he realizes that Nori did not say the word ‘bought’ in that sentence.

“Well, try it on,” Dori says, handing the suit over to Bilbo.

“It’s for me?” he squeaks, taken aback.

“Of course it is,” Nori says. “We can’t have you walk into Smaug’s office in some off-the-rack thing, now can we?”

Bilbo is so overwhelmed in this moment that he has no words. He tries to fight against the sting of unshed tears in his eyes as he gathers the material of the suit in his fingers. The company - every single one of them - have done nothing but make him feel welcome ever since he arrived here. Him, a complete stranger in whom they were putting an awful lot of trust to do something awfully important. He knows it’s just a suit, but somehow, it feels like so much more.

He scampers quickly into the backroom, trying to discreetly wipe at his eyes as he goes. He slips into the suit, then pops back out to where the brothers are waiting.

Dori tuts. “Well, I’ll have to hem the legs a bit,” he says, peering intently at Bilbo from just about every angle as he paces around him. “And the collar could do with a good deal of starch. But not to worry - nothing I can’t fix in a jiffy.” He pulls a pack of pins seemingly out of nowhere and begins busying himself by sticking them into Bilbo’s pant legs.

After a while, when Dori is finally satisfied with his pinning, Bilbo changes back into his clothes and leaves the brothers’ shop to head back to the pub. Only Bofur and Dwalin are there, and the three share supper and small talk for a while. Bilbo decides it’s time to leave after his third attempt to hide a yawn behind his hand.

He hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten; the sky is sufficiently dark now and the street lights have sprung on. It’s a bit of a walk back to Thorin’s house, but he doesn’t mind. The oppressive heat that had lingered over the city earlier in the day has cooled down to form quite a splendid July evening, if Bilbo does say so himself.

His mind wanders to thoughts of Prim and Drogo and how they’re getting along back home in Georgia. A small part of Bilbo misses summer back on the farm as he looks about at the tall buildings and busy streets of Chicago; how different it all is here, he thinks. It’s not quite regret that’s growing in the back of his mind, but maybe some kind of distant nostalgia. Well, anyway, he thinks, missing one summer back home is a small price to pay for what will happen if they succeed on this mission to take back Arkenstone Enterprises. He’ll be back on the farm next summer, and for all his summers after that, god willing.

And before he knows it, Bilbo is climbing up the front steps to Thorin’s house. He lets himself in with the spare key that Thorin’s given him. The entryway is dark, but he can see a light on upstairs, and he can hear the distant sound of some video game that Fíli and Kíli are playing up in the living room, accompanied by some muffled swearing; Kíli is losing badly to his brother, from what Bilbo can surmise.

Bilbo climbs quietly up the stairs and makes his way to the spare bedroom where he’s been staying. He flips on the light, and then nearly jumps out of his skin as a deep voice from behind him causes him to startle. “You were out late.”

With his hand pressed over his heart in an attempt to slow its new frantic pace, Bilbo turns around to see Thorin leaning on the doorframe of his own bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest, and a small smirk lingering on his face.

“Nori had something he wanted to show me at their shop,” Bilbo says. He can’t quite read the expression that’s lingering in Thorin’s eyes; either it’s accusation or concern - perhaps a bit of both? “Anyway, how did things smooth out with your sister?”

Thorin lets out a bark of laughter. “That was not how I was planning on introducing the two of you,” he says. “Dís can be a little… intense sometimes. And when she and Balin get into it, they’re always trying to out-lawyer each other.” He shakes his head. “My apologies if we scared you off. I promise it’s not always like that.”

“Well, that’s family for you,” Bilbo says, offering Thorin a small smile in return.

The truth is, Thorin owes him no apology. Bilbo’s been thinking on the word ‘family’ quite a bit over the past few weeks. He loves his own small family back home - there’s no argument there. Drogo and Prim are all that he has now that his parents have passed. And he loves his uncle Gandalf too, despite their differences. But what he’s stumbled on here in Chicago - this odd company of found family - they make him feel so fiercely protective and happy and comfortable and accepted and _loved_ \- my goodness, he’s said it. For, undoubtedly, it is love that Bilbo feels for his new friends - new _family_ , he corrects himself.

Bilbo swallows hard, and looks up at Thorin again, at the man who has unexpectedly given him all this. He has no words.

“Goodnight, Thorin,” Bilbo mumbles, ducking into his bedroom.

As he makes to close his door, he hears Thorin say, “Goodnight, Bilbo,” very quietly.

The door clicks closed. The tears that have been prickling in the corners of Bilbo’s eyes can now fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media! 
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	5. Chapter 5

“Enough!”

The room falls silent for the first time in well over a quarter of an hour. Bilbo lets out an audible sigh of relief. He’d given up any hope quite a while ago that he would be able to influence this decision in any way, shape, or form. He’s just happy that it finally looks as if a decision is about to be made.

Once Thorin has everyone’s attention, he speaks again. “Pizza.” There’s a good deal of groaning that breaks out, countered by a good deal of cheering. Thorin holds up a hand for silence once more. “We’re going to Cappy’s. Every man for himself. Let’s go.”

It takes a few minutes for the company to file out of the pub. They haven’t all been here together in several days, and Bilbo is quite glad to see all thirteen faces in the same place again. He thinks back for just a moment to a few weeks ago, when everyone was crammed into his living room, listening to Thorin tell his tale of woe regarding Smaug. God, how long ago that feels. So much has changed since then.

Bilbo’s thoughts are chased away by Fíli and Kíli’s sudden appearance at his side. “This is your first Cappy’s experience, isn’t it?” Fíli asks with a grin, slapping an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder.

Kíli latches himself on to the other side. “You’ll love it,” he says. “All sorts of weird combinations. A lot of it’s organic too, I think.”

The company travels on for a while, turning down street after street. Dwalin is leading, and, though Bilbo’s sense of direction isn’t the sharpest out there, he can’t shake the feeling that Dwalin isn’t taking them on the most direct route; it’s almost as if he suspects they might be followed. Bilbo tries to shrug off the thought. Why would they be followed? As uneasy as Thorin’s ‘business’ operations had made Bilbo when he had first arrived here, no one had shown up to bother them at all; there had been no sign of law enforcement, or any other rival ‘business’ groups that had come around to make trouble. Dwalin is probably just paranoid, Bilbo thinks. After all, Thorin pays him to be so - what use would a lackadaisical personal security guy be?

It’s in the moment that Bilbo finally convinces himself that everything is fine that things turn out to be... well, not fine.

The click of a pistol being loaded is a very distinct sound. And one that Bilbo never thought he would hear anywhere else besides his television. But he hears it three times in the darkness around them: once in front, once in back, and once to the side of the company.

Bilbo looks around wildly, trying to decide what to do in this moment, but before he can move, a very strong arm shoots out from the darkness to his right and grabs him, pinning him against an equally strong chest. There’s a very cool press of metal to his temple. He stiffens. Good god - what is happening?

“Move so much as a muscle, and it’s over for your new friend,” a deep voice growls from the darkness. Bilbo watches as two very large men saunter their way under the street light. They have short, tawny hair, dark eyes, and weather worn skin, and their features are nearly identical. Bilbo chances a glance up at his captor and sees the same face, only this one has one dark eye and one that is white and glassy.

Turning his eyes back to his friends, Bilbo can see shock on most of their faces; Ori looks about ready to pass out. Dwalin is nothing short of infuriated, and Thorin is shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if itching to charge at the three new arrivals. Balin lays a hand on his arm, trying to calm his agitation.

“Are any of you armed?” the second man says, casting a look about the group.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Fíli answers affirmatively. He very slowly reaches into the satchel that’s slung across his body and pulls out a small throwing axe. He tosses it on the ground at the men’s feet.

“Why the _fuck_ do you have that?” Thorin growls quietly, rolling his eyes before they come to rest on his nephew with a burning stare.

“Kí and I went to that axe throwing bar this afternoon, and I thought I’d take a souvenir home,” Fíli says with what Bilbo thinks is a poor attempt at an innocent shrug. Thorin continues to glare at Fíli, while over his shoulder, Nori beams proudly at the young man.

The first man kicks the axe to the second, who bends down to pick it up. “All right, the lot of you - up and over to the alley now, nice and quiet.”

He gestures with his gun, indicating which direction to move. Bilbo is dragged behind everyone else by the third man. The company is herded into a dark alley up ahead, where a box truck is parked. Their hands and legs are bound with zip ties, and one by one they’re picked up and thrown quite roughly into the back of the truck. Bilbo is the last to be thrown in, falling rather unceremoniously on top of Thorin, who grunts as the wind is knocked out of him upon Bilbo’s landing.

“Are you hurt?” Thorin asks the door slams shut behind them, throwing everything into darkness.

“No, I’m okay, I think,” Bilbo says, wriggling himself onto the floor of the truck. “Who are these people, Thorin?”

“The Troll Triplets,” Dwalin growls from somewhere to Bilbo’s left. “William, Tom, and Bert. I haven’t seen these bastards in years. Wonder whose payroll they’re on this time.”

“It was Smaug’s, last I heard,” Nori says.

“And just how would you know that?” Dori grouses. A loud thump can be heard in the darkness, and Bilbo can only assume that Dori has managed to kick his younger brother.

“I might’ve bumped into them at the bar once or twice,” Nori admits as the truck suddenly lurches forward. “And anyway, it’s my business to know these things.”

“Would’ve been useful to _know_ that they were on our scent,” Glóin grumbles.

“To be fair, last I _knew_ , they were off contract at the moment. Their sister just had another baby and they were supposed to be off to Cali to go see them,” Nori says defensively.

“Well, they’re obviously not,” Balin snaps. “So what’s the plan? How do we get out of this?”

There’s a good deal of incoherent grumbling, but no one puts forth a plan of action. Bilbo feels as if he’s going to be sick. This was not at all what he had signed up for when he agreed to do this job - though, he thinks with a rueful laugh, he is sure that Balin would be able to point out some obscure clause in his contract that covered this sort of thing if Bilbo were to verbalize this thought.

“It’s going to be okay, Bilbo.” Bilbo looks up. His eyes have adjusted a bit to the dimness, and he can see Thorin’s face hovering just to his right. He looks grim, but determined. “We’re going to get out of this. I promise.”

Bilbo can only nod, his mouth too dry and his throat too tight to speak at the moment. He wants to believe Thorin’s promise - he really does. But considering the fact that he doesn’t currently have use of either his arms or legs, he’s had a gun held to his head, and they’re being driven god knows where in the back of a box truck - well, no one would blame him for harboring even just the smallest hint of doubt. And the doubt that is beginning to fill Bilbo is anything but small.

And it doesn’t grow any smaller when the truck suddenly comes to a stop. The back door is flung open, and immediately Bilbo can hear what sounds like water underneath them. As his eyes adjust to the new level of light, he realizes that they’ve been driven out onto the end of a dock. Waves are lapping against concrete pylons below, and he can hear the ominous sound of metal banging against metal in the wind; there are several cranes nearby, he notices, whose large hooks are bashing violently against the rest of their apparatuses. He gulps.

“Tom, Bert - get them out of there,” the first man - William, apparently - snaps. His two brothers begin to unload the company from the back of the truck, throwing them roughly onto the concrete dock. Kíli hits the ground particularly hard, and when his head snaps back up again, Bilbo can see that he’s bleeding from a scrape just above his left eyebrow. Bilbo winces in sympathy, and then yelps as he, too, is thrown from the back of the truck.

“What does Smaug want with this lot anyway?” Bert grumbles as he hefts Bombur onto the ground.

“No idea,” Tom says. “But he’s gonna have his hands full. Fourteen of ‘em? Blimey.”

“He doesn’t want all of them,” William says, reappearing behind the truck. “Just Oakenshield, and the two runts.” He gestures at Fíli and Kíli, who each pull a face. “The rest were just an accident. We’ve been given clearance to do what we like with them.”

“Hey, wait a minute - I know you,” Tom says, grabbing hold of Bofur, who (Bilbo must give him credit) makes a very sincere attempt to become the spitting image of innocence. “Five years back, at the dog tracks. You’re that bastard who doled out that list of fakes names and ran off with everyone’s money.”

“And you!” Bert has Nori by his collar now. “You’re that sniveling little rat what took two grand off me while cheating at poker.”

“No, he’s the guy that busted the new speakers out of my car a few months ago,” Tom says, dropping Bofur, apparently now forgotten in favor of this new adversary, to the ground with a _thud_.

Nori shrugs in Bert’s grasp, nonplussed. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

That earns him a sound right hook from Tom. Nori reels back as Bert drops him too. Blood begins to pour out of his damaged nose and drips down onto his face.

“Leave my brother alone!” Ori has somehow managed to struggle to his feet, and is hopping (in the most menacing way that he can, bless his heart) towards the Troll brothers. Bert shoves him roughly to the ground with one hand.

“So this is the company you keep these days, is it, Oakenshield?” William sneers, hauling Thorin to his feet.

“You’ll regret this,” Thorin growls. “You picked the wrong people to mess with tonight.”

William throws a glance to the pile of bodies, bound and wriggling, entangled on the ground. “I don’t think so,” he says, throwing Thorin a good ways away from everyone else. Dwalin makes an effort to lunge after Thorin, which earns him a kick to the ribs courtesy of Bert. Tom picks up Fíli and Kíli, one in each hand as if they weighed nothing, and tosses them on top of Thorin.

“What about this?” Bert suggests, grabbing a length of metal chain from the ground next to him, and hefting the weight of it between his hands as if trying to feel it out. “Might be heavy enough to make ‘em sink.”

“Yeah, not a bad idea,” Tom says, eyeing up the company. “How much do we have?”

No, no - this is all wrong. Bilbo’s ears are filled with an odd rushing sound, which is doing its best to block out all other noise around him. His stomach is churning violently, and he’s sweating. He locks eyes with Thorin for a moment, which causes something else to rise inside of him. No - he isn’t going to die this way tonight. Not a chance in hell.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s sprung to his feet, hopping about in an attempt to keep his balance. “Wait!” he calls out. “You are making a terrible mistake!”

All three triplets turn to glare at him for a moment before bursting out in hearty laughter. “Excuse us?” William cuts out between laughs.

“I’m - I’m serious,” Bilbo continues. Oh god, where is he going with this? His eyes sweep nervously over the scene in front of him. Come on, Bilbo, think! And then he sees it. “You’re not going to have nearly enough of that chain to tie this lot up. There are much better ways to get rid of them, you know.”

His last comment causes an eruption of sound to come from the pile of bodies on the ground, the foremost among which is Dwalin cursing him out like he’s never been cursed out before in his life. Had he not been genuinely terrified for his own well being in this moment, Bilbo might have cracked a smile at Dwalin’s inventive use of language.

This also causes the triplets to sober immediately. “And you have a better idea?” Tom says, stepping forward to shove Bilbo rather hard in the chest.

Hopping back in an attempt to regain his balance, Bilbo nods. “Yes,” he says, finally managing to steady himself. “I mean, drowning them is going to offer satisfaction through the splash, but then down they go - that’s it.”

“So what do you suggest we do with them, then?” Bert says.

Bilbo’s brain is racing a mile a minute. “Well, I’d suggest turning them in to the police. There’s bound to be some reward money for them.” Bilbo regrets his words as soon as they come out of his mouth.

William’s face darkens in front of him. “And have to turn ourselves in in the process? I don’t think so!” He steps forward menacingly and grabs a handful of Bilbo’s shirt in his fist. “You think we’re idiots, don’t you? Remember, we’re the ones with the guns here.” He brandishes his weapon next to Bilbo’s face, coming dangerously close to hitting him.

“Oh, I get it - it’s some kind of game. Groovy.”

William drops Bilbo to the ground in surprise. Bilbo looks up, with shock to match the triplets’, to see his uncle Gandalf standing next to them.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tom growls.

“I’m Gandalf,” Bilbo’s uncle says. “And Gandalf means, well… me.”

“Now!”

Suddenly there’s a flurry of movement on the dock. Bilbo flinches back where he lays on the ground as Bombur lands very hard next to him, Bert thudding down on his other side. Bofur wriggles his way on top of the Troll brother’s chest, and Bifur throws himself down hard across his legs. Bert howls in pain.

Bilbo rolls onto his side to see similar chaos erupting around him. He watches as Fíli and Kíli, who have righted themselves, hop about until Kíli manages to get enough height to use Fíli’s bent legs as a springboard, and he launches himself like a human missile towards Tom, knocking out the backs of his knees. He falls.

There’s a good scramble going on between Dwalin, Thorin, and William. Dwalin head butts the Troll brother, and Thorin manages to trip him up. In the process, his gun goes flying out of his hand. The loss of his weapon doesn’t deter him, however. He’s back on his feet again in the next second, hauling his brothers off of the ground as well. Bilbo scrambles his way backwards on the ground until he comes to a rest against the back of the van. William is leering over him, and he doesn’t look happy. Bilbo gulps, and squeezes his eyes shut. If this is going to be his end, he doesn’t want to see it.

Three shots suddenly ring out over the din of the struggle, followed by three solid _thuds_. Bilbo barely dares to open his eyes, and when he does, he sees Gandalf in front of him, pistol held tightly between both of his hands. The Troll triplets lay on the ground before him. They’re not moving.

“Jesus Christ, you headshotted them,” Kíli says quietly.

Gandalf looks dumbfounded at the three bodies before him. “Did not know that was not a water gun,” he mumbles, before raising his eyes up to meet Thorin’s. “This isn’t a very nice game.”

“What are you even doing here?” Bilbo finally manages to croak out.

“It doesn’t matter,” Thorin cuts in. “We have to get out of here. Gandalf, get us out of these things.” He gestures with is bound hands. Gandalf obliges, pulling out a pocket knife and cutting the ties.

Once everyone is freed, Dwalin gathers up the three pistols, and pulls Fíli’s recently acquired axe from the cab of the truck.

“What do we do with the bodies?” Balin asks.

“Dump ‘em in the lake,” Dwalin growls. “We’ll have to move the truck, and probably burn it tomorrow.”

Had this event occurred even last week, Bilbo might have suggested calling the police. But he knows better now, and keeps his mouth shut - mostly because he feels he might vomit should he open it.

Suddenly a warm hand is on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” Thorin asks. Bilbo lets out a rather undignified squeak and nods. “It was never my intention to get you tangled up in anything like… this.” He gestures vaguely to the scene around them. “But now you have a firsthand understanding of just how ruthless Smaug can be, even if it is just through the actions of his thugs for hire.”

Rather quickly, the three bodies are chained and dropped into the water, and everyone loads back into the truck. Nori drops them off at the pub, and he and Dwalin drive off again after some vague reassurances that he ‘knows where he can stash it’ for now.

Thorin, Bilbo, Fíli and Kíli walk home together. Bilbo’s not sure if he’s imagining it or not, but he thinks that Thorin is staying a bit closer to him than what is necessary. He did seem genuinely sorry about the mess tonight.

Kíli reaches up to pick at the scrape on his forehead. “Can’t wait to explain this one to Mom,” he grumbles.

Thorin tenses at Bilbo’s side. “We won’t be telling your mother anything about this,” he snaps.

“Then how did I get this, exactly?” Kíli whines.

“Your brother was being a dick.”

“Hey, I resent that,” Fíli huffs.

“You were losing at Mario Kart and threw your controller at him,” Thorin says.

The brothers exchange a look. “How much for our silence?”

“Fíli, we almost died tonight!” Thorin growls exasperatedly. “And you except me to pay you for it?”

Fíli levels a stare at his uncle. “Fifty?”

Bilbo watches Thorin struggle with himself for a moment, and he wonders if he’s going to witness even more violence before the night is out. Then Thorin deflates. “Fifty.”

“Each.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“ _Oh, Mom, you’ll never guess where Uncle Thorin took us tonight_ ,” Kíli says in a sing-song voice, darting skillfully out of the way of Thorin’s arm as he takes a swing at his youngest nephew.

“Fine.” Thorin digs his wallet out of his back pocket and shoves two bills at Fíli.

Suddenly Bilbo is laughing - laughing so hard that tears are beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. His three companions stop walking and exchange a worried look with each other.

“Bilbo, are you - ?”

“We almost fucking died,” Bilbo wheezes out. “And we never even got our damn dinner.”

He’s still laughing a while later, seated at the kitchen table with Thorin and the boys as they wait for their pizza rolls to finish cooking. It’s nearly two in the morning.

“For the record,” Fíli says, “I would never lose to Kí at Mario Kart.”

Thorin slumps his head forward rather violently onto the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	6. Chapter 6

“I already told you: I don’t remember.”

Bilbo, for the first time in his life, is beginning to feel bad for his uncle.

Thorin scrubs a hand over his face, exhaustion and frustration clearly evident in his eyes. He hadn’t slept much after they’d gotten home last night. And Bilbo knows this because he, too, found himself restless and quite unwilling to close his eyes. Fíli and Kíli had decided on a round of Mario Kart before bed (“For the sake of the story,” Kíli had assured them). But when the repetition of the race selection screen music was on the brink of driving Bilbo mad, he had gone up to investigate what the hold up was, only to find the brothers curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, clinging onto each other like baby koalas. Bilbo had quietly tucked a blanket over the pair, turned the game off, and retreated back downstairs to his bedroom.

“I don’t remember how I got there, and I don’t really even remember firing the gun. That was the worst acid trip of my life.” Gandalf shakily reaches into his pocket and produces a joint and a lighter. But before he can go any further, Bofur snatches them out of his hand. He lights the joint and takes a nice, long drag on it before handing it back to Gandalf, who grumbles in annoyance.

“Just leave him alone,” Nori says. “He showed up and saved the day, albeit accidentally. But the bodies are gone, the truck’s gone, and everyone’s pretty much in one piece.”

“Nori’s right,” Óin chimes in. “He’s got a busted nose, Kíli’s scraped his head a bit, and Dwalin has a few bruised ribs - all of which I’m able to take care of. That being said, we were lucky to get out of there mostly unscathed.”

“But it shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Dwalin growls from behind the bar. He unscrews a bottle of whiskey and pours it over several shot glasses. One is slid Bilbo’s way. He eyes it for a moment before glancing up at Dwalin hesitantly. Dwalin glares at him, his silent instructions clear: _drink it_. Bilbo shoots it down; it burns his throat, and he does his best not to cough.

“We’ll need to be more careful,” Thorin says. “Smaug might suspect that we’re up to something.”

“It could have been an old hit,” Balin suggests, but Bilbo guesses from the man’s tone that he doesn’t even really believe the words himself.

“I don’t think so,” Thorin says, shaking his head. He sighs. “From now on, I want everyone here every night. We check in with each other - no exceptions. Gandalf, you should start bringing Radagast with you if he’s still in town. Since you’re the one who fired the shots, they could go after him in an attempt to get to you. It’s me they really want, but that also puts each and every one of you in danger.”

Bilbo swallows. What had started out as something that he might even dare to call ‘fun’ has suddenly become more dangerous than he ever would have imagined. He thought this whole plan was going to be straight forward enough: get Smaug to make a deal with him, find something incriminating about the whole nasty business, turn him in to the authorities, and then go home again, presumably. But that had been before he knew what Thorin’s world was really like. And even though it scared him (Bilbo did not think too much of himself to be unable to admit this fact), he was determined to stick by his found family, no matter how dangerous things were going to get.

***

Bilbo really needs to stop opening his mouth.

“Another two have just rolled up,” Dwalin says, chancing a peek through the curtains to the street outside.

It’s three days later, and everyone is at the pub for their nightly check in. Balin, Dori, and Glóin had all reported a sneaking suspicion of being trailed on their way here tonight, and much to Bilbo’s despair, they were right.

“Who are they?” Dori asks as he swats Ori’s hand out of his mouth once again. His younger brother had been chewing ferociously on his fingernails ever since Dwalin had suggested the hint of a threat outside a half an hour ago.

Thorin moves to stand next to Dawlin near the window. He looks for a few seconds before a shadow crosses over his face. “The Wargs,” he growls. “I thought they might have something to say about this mess.”

“Do they know it’s us or do you think it’s a lucky guess?” Dwalin asks.

“They know,” Thorin says darkly. “The Troll Triplets probably tipped them off about the hit before they left. Insurance for a revenge hit in case they didn’t come back.”

Bombur comes jogging back in from the kitchen then. “There’s three out in the alley,” he pants out, bending to rest his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath . “No chance of getting out the back way without being caught.”

“Tits,” Bifur says empathetically, rubbing his hand in small circles over his cousin’s back.

“And there’s eight of them out front.” Dwalin tugs a hand through his beard in worry.

“So we invite them in.”

Bilbo whips around to stare at Radagast. He’s leaning back in his chair, and his sandaled feet are propped up on the table. A cigarette is burning absently in his hand, his arm dangling limply next to him.

“What?” Thorin rumbles.

“There’s sixteen of us and eleven of them,” Radagast says. “Fight them in here where you have some semblance of weapons - I’d go for the broken bottle, personally. And anyway, it’s better than trying to slip out past eight of those buggers. That’s a fight, sure enough.”

Thorin folds his arms over his chest. “We’re not fighting anyone.”

***

Thorin’s words are still ringing in Bilbo’s ears ten minutes later as he rolls to duck a punch, knocking a bar stool over in the process, which at the very least puts some space between him and the Warg trying his best to get at him.

Once the Wargs had in fact been invited in, there had been a brief discussion between Thorin and their leader, a scrawny fellow with a mop of scraggly black hair and a sharp, toothy grin named Draugluin. He’d accused Thorin of having something to do with the Troll Triplets’ disappearance. To this point, Thorin had talked himself in circles, neither confirming nor denying the allegation. And then it had all gone to shit when Radagast, true to his word, had smashed a bottle - and for no reason, in Bilbo’s opinion, as he had been quite optimistic that Thorin would wriggle his way out of this. There had been no imminent threat of violence from the Wargs at that point; how very different things were now, he thinks ruefully.

Bilbo scrambles back to his feet. He looks up to see Fíli rugby tackle someone into a nearby table. Óin has smashed a chair and is swinging the jagged remains about violently. Bofur is… _laughing_ as he chucks shot glasses about from behind the bar, targeting any Warg that dares to get too close to one of his friends. This has all escalated much too quickly for Bilbo’s liking.

Suddenly there’s an eruption of sound from the kitchen, and Bilbo looks up to see the other three reported Wargs come charging in, armed with aluminum bats and several crowbars, which they throw to their nearby comrades. That’s not good - not good at all.

“Run!” Thorin bellows.

The company doesn’t need telling twice. There’s a mad scramble towards the front door. Bombur surges forward faster than Bilbo would have guessed he could move, knocking two Wargs to the floor through sheer force of might as he goes. In the chaos, Bilbo is tripped, though by design of their adversaries, or by friendly fire, he wouldn’t rightly be able to tell you. He crashes to the ground, hard, the wind completely knocked out of him.

“Bilbo!”

Thorin stoops to haul him up by the front of his shirt, but the move proves to be to his detriment. Just as Bilbo gets to his feet, Draugluin appears behind Thorin, and brings his newly acquired bat down hard on Thorin’s shoulder. There’s a sickening crunch, and Thorin buckles in pain, a strangled shout escaping his lips. Draugluin brings the bat up for another hit. Before Bilbo knows what he’s doing, he launches himself towards the Warg and grabs hold of the bat. Draugluin’s grip slackens out of shock, and Bilbo manages to wrestle it from him; he winds up to swing as hard as he can. He had been aiming for the man’s shoulder - honestly - but Thorin sags into his legs at just the wrong (or right) moment, knocking Bilbo off balance just enough for his trajectory to shift upwards, causing him to make solid contact with the side of Draugluin’s head. The man crumples before his eyes and hits the floor with a satisfying _thud_.

Bilbo and Thorin lock eyes for a moment, neither quite sure of what they’ve just witnessed. The moment’s soon broken, however, by Dwalin yelling at them to get out of there. Bilbo helps Thorin to his feet, and Thorin pushes him towards the door with his good arm; his left shoulder is at a most disconcerting angle. They stumble outside. The street is empty save for the members of the company who have already made it out. For once, Bilbo wishes that the pub was in a more populated part of town.

“Eleven, twelve, thirteen,” Balin is counting.

Bilbo feels a hand cover his then, and he starts. He looks up to see Thorin, and then down to where their hands are, and he realizes that he is still clutching the bat, so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. Thorin gently pries his hand off of it and takes it from him before chucking it down into the darkness of the alley next to the pub.

Bilbo watches it go, and then looks over to the pub in time to see Gandalf haul an enraged Bifur through the front door. Gandalf has his arms hooked under Bifur’s armpits, and Bifur is waving his fists about wildly, two middle fingers flying proudly in the direction they’ve just come from.

Bofur is the last to reluctantly scramble out of the pub. He drags one of the larger tables behind him, using it to block the space in front of the door once he’s stepped through. He slams the door shut behind him. Bilbo can see an open gash running through his right eyebrow; blood is still trickling down his face from the wound. Likely a result of one of the crowbars, Bilbo thinks with a shudder.

“We have to get out of here,” Dwalin says. “Do we split up?”

“No, we need to stay together,” Thorin says. “And we need to get somewhere they won’t expect to look for us - somewhere safe.”

Bilbo glances at the front door. There’s a good deal of commotion on the other side of it; Bofur’s done a splendid job of blocking it up, but Bilbo suspects it won’t hold for much longer. They have to make a decision, and fast.

“You go - I’ll distract them,” Radagast declares. Since Radagast is the instigator of this whole affair, Bilbo rather agrees with this plan; if someone is going to be left behind, it most certainly should be him.

“Babe, no,” Gandalf whines, but Radagast merely shakes his head.

“I’ve got this,” he assures them. “I’ve had my dealings with this motley gang before. They’re just a bunch of scrawny, starved bastards looking for a few bucks and a bit of a rumble - I can handle them. The rest of you need to get out of here.” He pauses a moment, his bushy eyebrows stitched together in thought, before they suddenly spring up, signaling an idea. He looks at Gandalf. “Take them to Elrond’s - they’ll never think to look there in a million years.”

Gandalf chews nervously on his lower lip. “I don’t know how cool Elrond and I are at the moment,” he says. “I kinda maybe owe him some money?”

“Whatever it is, we’ll pay it,” Thorin barks. “We just have to get out of here.”

Gandalf considers this a moment, then nods. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on the top of Radagast’s head and whispers, “Be careful,” before straightening up and shouting, “Follow me!” to the rest of the group. He takes off at a run down the street, his gangly legs moving quite a bit faster than Bilbo would have suspected of him. The company follows.

Bilbo hears the distant sound of the front door finally slamming open after they’ve put a good distance between themselves and the pub, and he hears Radagast shout, “Come and get me!” over the din, before all noise save for the thundering of their own footsteps fades out.

They run for what feels like forever. Bilbo’s breath comes painfully to his chest; he’s never been one for cardio. Finally, they decide they’ve covered enough ground to be safe, and they come to a stop in a small park. Kíli throws himself dramatically onto the ground, declaring that he will go no further unless someone carries him.

“How much further?” Dori pants.

“About a half hour walk,” Gandalf says. “Or we could Uber.”

“No - no Ubers,” Thorin says sharply. “I don’t want to do anything that could result in Smaug tracking our movements.”

“The Wargs never said that Smaug sent them,” Balin points out.

“I don’t care, we’re not taking any chances,” Thorin snaps. “We walk. Let’s get moving.”

They begin a rather grumbly walk to their destination. Bilbo doesn’t want to call Thorin paranoid, he really doesn’t. So instead he convinces himself that the pain Thorin must be in from his shoulder, which surely must be at least dislocated, is causing him to make some less-than-thorough decisions right now.

He’s unsure why he does it, but Bilbo reaches out to touch Thorin’s left arm. He flinches badly as Bilbo’s fingers make contact, which causes Bilbo to jump back. Thorin’s eyes grow wide a moment and then soften as he realizes what he’s done. “Sorry,” he mumbles, ducking his head to look down at his feet rather than at Bilbo.

“Does it hurt bad?” Bilbo asks.The words sound stupid even as they leave his mouth, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“I’ve had worse,” Thorin admits, and Bilbo’s stomach churns uncomfortably at this implication. Thorin has been polished and steady for as long as Bilbo has known him, and he finds that he doesn’t like to think about Thorin fighting and getting hurt. A small _eeping_ sound escapes his lips at the thought, but he manages to turn it into a somewhat convincing cough - or, at least he likes to think he gets away with it.

 _Good god, get a grip_ , Bilbo admonishes himself. He’s just come out of a bar fight with a rival gang - dear lord, are they a gang now? He shudders, not so much at the thought itself, but more at the fact that he’s not entirely sure it’s wrong. Oh, how his parents would be rolling over in their graves if they could see him now, a farmer turned - what? Criminal? And what would Prim think of him? And Drogo? And what are Thorin’s thoughts on all - ?

 _No, stop it_. Thorin is his friend, and, technically, his employer. Enough of this.

They walk on, Bilbo trying his best to calm his racing thoughts. It’s just the adrenaline, he tells himself. He’s probably in a bit of shock, that’s all. He’s never been in a proper fight before in his life, because, let’s face it - he wasn’t much help with the Troll Triplets. And what a first fight to have been a part of.

And soon enough, they find themselves outside of a dingy looking apartment building. Gandalf walks up to the voice box by the front door, somewhat nervously, Bilbo thinks. He rings for Apartment 301. There’s a beat, and then a voice crackles over the line. “Yes?”

“Hey, Elrond, it’s me, Gandalf,” his uncle says.

Another beat. “Yes?”

“Hey, listen, I’ve got some friends with me. Mind if we come up?”

“Are they friends, or are they _friends_?” The voice has turned a bit suspicious for Bilbo’s liking, but he guesses there’s nothing they can really do at this point besides roll with the punches.

“Nah, they’re just friends,” Gandalf says.

The voice sighs. “Okay, come on up.”

The front door unlocks, and the company piles inside. The hallway is just as dingy as the outside, and the staircase in front of them looks worn and like it probably hasn’t been properly cleaned in years. There’s almost no sound inside, and it’s a bit eerie. Gandalf leads them up to the third floor, and knocks at the first door on their right. It opens almost immediately, and a tall man with dark brown hair and a face that’s impossible to decipher an age from sticks his head out.

“Jesus Christ, when you said some friends, I didn’t think you meant a small army,” the man - presumably Elrond - says. His face pinches a bit sour. “You can’t just bring people here, Gandalf. Are they all cool?” His eyes narrow as his gaze focuses in on Bilbo’s uncle.

“Yeah, they’re all cool,” Gandalf says with a shrug.

Elrond apparently accepts this as a good enough answer. “Well, you’d better come in, then.”

He stands back to let them pass. Bilbo finds himself standing in the middle of a large living room. It’s sparsely decorated with a comfortable looking couch and a large screen TV. There’s a pile of children’s toys in the corner, and one of those plastic castles that Bilbo had as a child. He gets the impression of _single dad_ right away. But this thought immediately goes icy in his stomach as he turns his head and catches sight of a large tarp nailed up over a doorway. There’s a soft bubbling sound coming from the room on the other side of the tarp, which is brightly lit, illuminating a series of tables with an intricate looking chemical setup spread out across them. The room is very clearly sealed off for a reason.

“Um, Gandalf…?”

Gandalf bowls ahead before the rest of Bilbo’s question can escape his mouth. “Elrond, I’d like you to meet Thorin Oakenshield and company,” he says quickly.

Elrond levels his gaze on Thorin. “Thorin Oakenshield, formerly of Arkenstone Enterprises, I presume?” he says.

“Yes,” Thorin says gruffly.

“Nasty business with Smaug. Sorry to hear of it.”

“And you are Elrond Peredhel, formerly _doctor_ ,” Thorin counters with a bit of a sneer that rubs Bilbo just a bit wrong and makes him almost reach out to put a hand on Thorin’s arm in warning, but he refrains. Elrond scowls a moment, but says nothing. “I recognize your face from the papers,” Thorin continues.

“Also a nasty business,” Elrond admits with a heavy, self-pitying sigh. He scowls again a few moments later when Thorin doesn’t take his bait. “Oh, go on, then,” he says dramatically, his eyes flicking towards the tarped door. “Mock the disgraced doctor - half of this damn city has already. Doctor Elrond Peredhel - oh, what a lordly fall I’ve had.”

“Uh, I haven’t told them.” Gandalf’s voice is shy; Bilbo’s never heard this tone from his uncle before.

Elrond palms his hand over his eyes for a moment, then drags it down the rest of his face. “Well, there’s no skirting around it now,” he says.

He makes to gesture towards the tarp, but as he opens his mouth to speak, he’s interrupted by a high pitched squeal, and the sound of small footsteps motoring down the hallway to their right. In burst three small children: a girl and two boys - twins, Bilbo guesses from their nearly identical features. They’re all dressed in footy pajamas, labeled Thing 1, Thing 2, and Thing 3 respectively.

“Papa, we’re going to kill the dragon!” the girl, Thing 3, squeals excitedly, gesturing back to the direction they’ve come from. “We need your help!” Her brothers nod in solidarity, a look of perfect innocence on their faces.

“Jesus Christ, I thought I said it was bedtime like an hour ago,” Elrond groans.

“But the dragon!” Thing 2 protests, tugging on Elrond’s pants.

“You have to help us!” Thing 1 adds sweetly.

Elrond sighs and looks at Gandalf. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says before turning back to his children. He seems to have transformed from wary ‘business’ contact to haggard dad very quickly. “Okay, let’s go kill the dragon,” he says. “Then can you go to bed?” The three children shout excitedly. Thing 3 squirrels her way onto her father’s back, while Elrond picks up Things 1 and 2 by their collars and carries them off down the hallway.

The company is silent for several long moments after Elrond departs. “Sooo, are we gonna talk about the meth lab?” Bilbo finally asks, leveling an accusatory stare at his uncle.

“That’s a meth lab? Cool,” Kíli says, which earns him a quick cuff upside the head courtesy of Dwalin.

Gandalf folds his arms across his chest defensively. “He’s providing for his family,” he says. “And you might want to take a look at where you currently stand, because it’s not on the moral high ground you seem to think you have, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo flaps his arms about in a huff. “He’s contributing to the urban drug epidemic,” he hisses.

“He only sells his stuff to bad people,” Gandalf counters.

Before Bilbo can retort, Balin steps between the two of them. “Enough with the familial argument, you two,” he says.

“What _bad people_?” This comes from Thorin, who is looking at Gandalf with narrowed eyes.

“Well, um - ” Gandalf stammers. “I mean, there’s a few that come to mind…”

“Like?” Thorin prompts.

“Well, like… the Wargs?”

“You blithering idiot!” Thorin explodes. “You knew that this guy sells to the people who have just attacked us? And you led us straight here?”

“No, no, no, it’s all cool,” Gandalf says, as reassuringly as he can manage while simultaneously taking several steps back from Thorin in a defensive retreat. “They’d never think to check here in a million years. And Elrond would never sell us out. He sells to them mostly because he can rip them off for double the market price and they’re too stupid to know the difference.”

“You seem to know a lot about his business,” Bilbo says dryly.

“Look, I ran some numbers for him for a bit last year, okay?” Gandalf huffs. “I’ve known him for ages. If I say he’s cool, then he’s cool.”

Thorin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “It’s not like we have a choice,” he says. “We have to lay low tonight, and since we’re already here, here is where we’re going to stay.”

Before anyone can argue the point any further, Elrond returns, and any discord that might have been brewing amongst the ranks quickly silences itself. “You must be tired,” Elrond says. “I have rooms enough for all of you. If you’d follow me.”

He leads them down the hallway to their right. Bilbo’s jaw drops open at what he sees. Elrond explains to them as they walk that he in fact owns the entire building (making meth is apparently a lucrative business - who knew?) and that he and his children are the only ones who live there - obviously, having tenants and a meth lab in the same space doesn’t sound like it’s quite worth the trouble. He’s knocked out most of the walls between the various apartments on this floor, creating a maze of rooms that extends the whole length of the building (“Well, I can’t make meth _all day_ ,” Elrond says with just a hint of laughter in his eyes when Bilbo asks him how he’s had the time to do all this construction).

Most of the company break off into rooms to sleep, while Óin drags Thorin and Bofur into one of the kitchens to examine their injuries. Fortunately, they were the only two to come away with any kind of damage. Bilbo and Gandalf follow them, and Elrond offers his services; just because he’s had his medical license revoked doesn’t mean that he didn’t still spend eight years in med school.

Óin takes care of Bofur’s cut first. Luckily he doesn’t need stitches, but it might scar. While Óin works to clean it up, Elrond offers to put Thorin’s shoulder back into place. Thorin is hesitant at first, and his eyes steal over to Óin, betraying his thoughts that he would much rather have his own doctor do it.

“Thorin, for goodness sake, let Elrond do it!” Bilbo finally snaps. “You’ve been in pain long enough.” Begrudgingly, Thorin nods his ascent.

“This is going to hurt,” Elrond warns gently.

“I’ll be fine,” Thorin grunts.

Bilbo knows this is a lie, and it’s confirmed for everyone else a moment later when Thorin reaches out to squeeze Bilbo’s hand in a vice grip as Elrond snaps his shoulder back into place with a _crunch_.

“Jesus, _fuck_ ,” Thorin says through gritted teeth before muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” to Elrond.

Elrond nods before ducking over to speak quietly with Gandalf. The pair leave the room.

“Um, Thorin? My hand…” Bilbo says gently, trying not to let the pain waver into his own voice from the fact that Thorin is still gripping it much too tightly.

Thorin loosens his grip immediately, his cheeks flushing a shade of crimson that Bilbo has never seen before. He tampers down a smile that threatens to form at this development, not wanting to further Thorin’s embarrassment. “Sorry,” Thorin mumbles. He - unconsciously, Bilbo schools himself into thinking quickly, for the benefit of all involved here, of course - rubs a few small, soothing circles over the back of Bilbo’s hand before letting it go.

“Well, you’d better get off to bed,” Bilbo says quickly. “And sleep on your right side, _please_.”

Thorin nods. “Goodnight, Bilbo,” he says before padding his way down the hallway to find an unoccupied bedroom.

Once he’s gone, Bilbo lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He runs a hand through his untidy curls. What a night he’s had. His first bar fight, and now his first time sleeping in a meth den. And his first time thinking that maybe -

No, he stops there. Best not to think about it, not while he needs to sleep. They’re bound to have quite the day ahead of them tomorrow, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	7. Chapter 7

Bilbo takes his time opening his eyes. He stretches his sore limbs in a rather cat-like manner, arching his back and then curling it in; it pops satisfyingly as he does so. He’s not one hundred percent sure where he is as his mind is still groggy with sleep, but he can tell that the bed is different - it’s nothing like his comfortable bed in Thorin’s spare room back at the townhouse, but it’ll do, he supposes. The events of last night come back to him slowly. Ah, yes - he’s at Elrond’s, he remembers now; it wasn’t just a dream. He hums a bit to himself, resigning to the fact that it’s apparently time to get up and see what this day will bring. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and as the blur begins to fade, they come into focus on a face hovering uncomfortably too close to his own.

Bilbo starts back with a yelp; Kíli grins.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Bilbo grumbles, tossing a pillow at the young man’s head. He catches it easily.

“Uncle sent me to wake you,” he says. “It’s after ten, and he didn’t want you to miss breakfast.”

Bilbo waves Kíli off. He trots from the room as Bilbo swings his feet over the side of the bed and stands, stretches once more, and then pads after him down the hallway. The smell of bacon is wafting from one of the kitchens, and Bilbo arrives to find most of the company sprawled about on a collection of various types of chairs, obviously liberated from other parts of the house. As soon as he sits down, Bombur slides a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee in front of him, which he’s most grateful for; he hadn’t realized how hungry he’s been until just now.

“You’re welcome to stay here another day or two,” Elrond says as he pushes a fresh batch of eggs around in a frying pan.

“That’s very kind, but we don’t want to cause any more trouble for you than we already may have,” Thorin says. There’s a weight to his voice that Bilbo hasn’t heard since Thorin was telling him the story of Arkenstone Enterprises all those weeks ago, and he feels a pang of guilt, or dread, maybe, begin to pool in his stomach. Things have changed now, and not entirely for the better, Bilbo suspects.

“Where will you go?”

“Outside of the city,” Thorin says, a bit evasively. “We’ll lay low for a couple of days, reassess, see if anything kicks up in retaliation from the Wargs.”

Elrond nods. “Well, if you ever need assistance, you know where to find me.”

Once the remaining members of the company have woken and stumbled into the kitchen to eat, Thorin begins to map out a plan for them. Much to Bilbo’s disliking, it seems that a good night’s sleep has done nothing to quell Thorin’s paranoia. He makes all of them forfeit their cell phones, turning them off and piling them in the middle of the table; they could easily be used to track the company, and he doesn’t put it past Smaug to try. Elrond lends them his laptop, and Thorin plots out a bus route for them on the screen to an address just outside of the city proper, though he doesn’t name their destination. Fíli and Kíli exchange a nervous look at this, but say nothing.

Cash is the next item on the agenda (credit cards can be tracked too, you know). Elrond is able to break several larger bills for them in exchange for smaller ones for bus fair and ‘incidentals’, as Thorin says . Bilbo can’t help but notice that a sizeable wad of cash stays in Elrond’s hand, no doubt an offer of payment for his hospitality, plus most likely whatever Gandalf owes him for things that Bilbo does not even want to begin to think about.

It doesn’t take long for the company to gather themselves as they prepare to leave. They have nothing to pack since they were only able to escape with whatever had been in their pockets the night before. Elrond’s three children wave goodbye to them from inside of their plastic castle in the living room as the company files out the door and downstairs. It’s a quick walk to a bus stop, and not long of a wait before a bus pulls up; luck is on their side this morning, Bilbo thinks mildly as he settles down in a seat next to Ori. And they have been incredibly lucky so far, all things considered. Their entire plan might have gone up in smoke with the interference of the Troll Triplets, but somehow, after that ordeal and their run-in with the Wargs, they’re all in one piece, albeit a bit bruised.

They have to transfer busses twice before they’re finally heading out of the city center and in the direction that Thorin wants. His eyes haven’t stopped moving very much, Bilbo notes, not since they left Elrond’s place. He’s twitchy, and he keeps rubbing at his left shoulder, obviously still in a bit of discomfort from his injury, but unwilling to admit it. Bilbo wants to say something to him, but doubts that he could find any words to calm Thorin’s nerves at this point. Because he’s not just carrying the anxiety of the last few days, but the anxiety of the last twenty plus years, Bilbo realizes. Thorin has been fighting this fight, shouldering this burden for more than half his life. It pains Bilbo to watch his friend struggle through this, but it only serves to double his commitment to seeing this job through, and taking back Arkenstone Enterprises.

Soon they disembark from the bus and find themselves standing in a quiet neighborhood. To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin seems to have momentarily lost some of his confidence; he’s peering about, looking one way down the street and then the other, his brows knitted together in concentration. This goes on for several more moments before Fíli sighs audibly and grumbles, “This way,” pushing past Thorin in a direction that Thorin had not even seemed to consider in his ponderings.

They troupe down one street and then another. The further they go, the more spread out the houses become, and they even begin to grow in size. Finally, with a small noise of recognition, Thorin marches them up the driveway and then the front path of a large white house with cheery green shutters and a sapphire blue front door. He makes to reach for the door handle, hesitates, then thinks better of it, and knocks instead. After several long moments the front door opens. Dís is on the other side. She folds her arms across her chest and regards her brother with steely, bright blue eyes; the same eyes look back at her, with just the barest trace of apology in them.

“You could have called,” she says with a resigned sigh. She steps back to let the company inside.

Fíli and Kíli each receive a quick slap to the back of their heads, and mumble, “Hi, Mom,” as they scamper past her and into the house.

Bilbo is the last person to file inside. “Still here?” Dís asks as he draws level with her. Unsure what to say, Bilbo simply nods. She regards him a moment before saying, “Good for you.” She closes the door behind him.

“I trust this isn’t a social visit,” Dís says, casting her eyes about the company gathered before her in her living room. “What’s the matter now, Thorin? What have you done?”

“There may have been… an incident,” Thorin says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“Elaborate,” Dís says. It’s not a question.

“Let’s just say the pub’s not exactly a safe place to be right now,” Bofur cuts in quickly, rescuing Thorin, whose face is scrunched up a bit in pain from trying to search for the right words to tell his sister. And by ‘right,’ Bilbo means words that aren’t going to get Thorin slapped in front of the entire company.

Dís regards him a moment, before saying, “Must be pretty bad if you came all the way out here. None of the rest of you are good for a safe landing?” She casts her eyes questioningly about the room, sweeping over each and every member of the company.

“We’re being watched,” Thorin says darkly.

Dís’ eyes snap back to him, her lips drawing into a thin line. “Is it…?” Thorin nods, not needing her to finish the sentence. “Well, shit,” Dís says quietly.

“We wouldn’t have bothered you if we weren’t desperate,” Thorin adds. “I know that you didn’t want to get mixed up in this plan, and I respect that. But things changed rather quickly.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “And we haven’t been as careful as we should have been,” he finishes quietly.

Dís nods curtly. “Well, if this is what it takes for Thorin Oakenshield to admit that he might have made a mistake, then I’ll take it.” A small smile begins to curl at the corner of her lips. “I’ll pull the air mattresses and the camping pads out of the basement. And someone will have to go to the store - lord knows I don’t have nearly enough in the house to keep you lot fed.”

Thorin steps towards his sister and bends so that their foreheads rest gently against each other. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Well, get going, you great oaf,” Dís snaps, roughly pushing her brother away with one hand, though the spark of laughter in her eyes betrays any front of annoyance that she is trying to display. “I expect you’ll want to borrow the car to get to the store?”

***

Dinner that night almost makes Bilbo forget all of the bad things that have happened in the last seventy two hours. Óin and Glóin have managed to construct a massive dining table compiled out of several smaller tables and other various flat surfaces that they were able to get their hands on. A plethora of chairs have been brought into the dining room as well, and even the small couch from the study has been lifted in and placed at one end of the table. A hard fought battle is waged over who gets to sit on it. Nori eventually emerges victorious, sprawling out across the whole thing himself, but ultimately concedes it to his brothers in a show of goodwill.

Bombur and Dís have more than outdone themselves on the food. Two kinds of salad, mac and cheese, fried chicken, pasta salad, a cheese board, grilled vegetables, homemade biscuits, and even Bombur’s special chili are spread across the table. The company laugh and talk and swap stories and smile, and it takes everything in Bilbo to calm the hitch in his chest that keeps threatening to escape in what he’s sure will be an unflattering, strangled noise that would most certainly be taken for a sob. But it’s one of happiness - pure, unadulterated happiness. He hasn’t felt this happy since being back home at Bag End. Well, no - that isn’t quite right, he realizes. He hadn’t felt this particular brand of happiness there in quite a while. What he’d felt was a contented happiness, yes, and it was nothing to shake a stick at, don’t get me wrong. But this… It’s the people he’s with here that are making him feel this way. His eyes sweep over the table, and they quickly catch on Thorin, who, if Bilbo’s not mistaken, must have already been looking at him, judging by the depth of his gaze. He feels the blood rush into his face, and quickly looks away again, turning to Dís to compliment her on her excellently fried chicken.

At the end of the evening, Bilbo finds himself tucked into the bed in the guest bedroom with Bofur as his bunkmate. There had been a fair deal of squabbling over the sleeping arrangements. Everyone had agreed, against Dís’ protests - charming host that she was - to leave her in her own bedroom. Fíli and Kíli had reclaimed the two twin beds in their childhood bedroom, and Thorin was granted the sleeper sofa in the study. That left the queen sized bed in the guest room. Bofur had thoroughly latched himself onto the doorframe, blocking anyone else from entering, citing his head injury (“I took that crowbar out of nothing but love for the rest of you!” he’d shouted, to which Nori had replied that that was an interesting way of saying “bad peripheral vision”). Eventually Bilbo had been chosen out of the ranks, deemed worthy of the bed by Bofur by being the only one of the company who had not shouted obscenities at him in an attempt to sway his favor.

“We should make a run to the pub tomorrow,” Bofur mumbles sleepily as he throws himself onto his side on the bed, trying to get comfortable. “See what the damage is. Salvage what we can. The back room was locked so hopefully the laptops are still okay in there.”

Bilbo hums in vague agreement. His eyelids are impossibly heavy. He thinks Bofur is still talking, but he lets sleep take him anyway; they’ll figure everything out tomorrow.

***

Bofur looks nothing short of miserable as they pick their way through the mess that the pub has become. Furniture is smashed, and broken glass litters the floor. The register behind the bar has been broken open and sacked, and the kitchen is thoroughly trashed; Bilbo is glad that Bombur isn’t here to see the carnage.

Thorin had agreed to Bofur’s plan this morning, and the two of them, along with Bilbo, Fíli, Balin, and Nori, had driven back into the city to check the pub out. Nori had disappeared to his shop in order to gather anything they would need from it, citing concern that Smaug would be keeping an eye on it too since he was a known associate of Thorin’s, and it might not be safe to go there anymore. Bofur’s prediction about the back room had been correct; the laptops had been left behind, and all of the design work that he had done on Bilbo’s fake business that they would be pedaling to Smaug had survived. At least there was one spark of sunshine in this otherwise disastrous scene.

Bilbo twists his hands together in worry as he watches Bofur, who is stood stock still in the middle of the pub, his shoulders twitching with what Bilbo can only assume are quiet, dry sobs. Balin notices this too, and sidles up to Bilbo to whisper quietly to him. “Nasty business,” he says with a heavy sigh. “This was his parents’ place, you know. When they got too sick to run it properly anymore, the poor lad dropped out of school and came back home to help them. And things only piled up when they passed, and then Bifur’s injury happened… He’s been through so much in this little pub. And then he met Thorin and they began to run their line here together, and things finally started to turn around for him. Sometimes I thought meeting Thorin had been the best thing that’d ever happened to him. And now I fear it may also have been the worst…”

Thorin rather aptly chooses this moment to abandon his inventory behind the bar and steps next to Bofur, placing a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. Bofur sags into him a bit, resting his head against Thorin’s arm, and Bilbo has to look away; he feels as if he’s intruding on a rather private moment.

“I think Bofur reminds him a bit of Frerin,” Balin says softly. Bilbo notices tears prickling in the corners of the older man’s eyes. “He’s lost so much - and for what? Greed is a terrible thing, Bilbo. Never forget that.”

Bilbo opens his mouth. He wants to say something, but he’s not sure what - he’s not sure there are any words for what he’s feeling, really. He’s spared the struggle, however, as Nori returns just then, and he and Balin silently return to what they had been doing. Bilbo helps Fíli load the laptops and other film equipment that had been in the back room into the trunk of the car. Balin begins to load the remaining booze that Thorin had packed into boxes (because, _priorities_ , Bilbo thinks) in as well. The suit that Nori had procured for him is hanging in its garment bag next to the window, and Bilbo can see an assortment of other items that Nori had deemed useful scattered about. There’s a beautiful leather briefcase, as well as some high-tech looking electronic equipment that Bilbo suspects might be military grade; he knows better than to ask Nori about it at this point.

Bilbo closes the trunk of the car and looks up in time to see Bofur locking the front door of the pub, a rather somber expression on his usually cheery face; it’s disconcerting to see him this way, and it makes Bilbo’s stomach churn uncomfortably. Once they’re all packed into the car, Nori starts the engine and pulls away. Bilbo watches the pub fade from sight through the rearview mirror. Things have undoubtedly changed. And from now on, there’s no way of going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	8. Chapter 8

A week passes, and much to Bilbo’s liking, Bofur’s mood has improved exponentially. He’s thrown himself back into his design work, and Bilbo now has a functioning fake website, beautiful business cards, and a plethora of social media accounts, complete with a small army of other fake bot accounts with which they can interact, courtesy of Kíli (“I’m not studying computer science at school for nothing,” he says with a huff, but the sparkle in his eye lets Bilbo know that he’ll take the compliment).

Unfortunately, Gandalf’s mood has gone in quite the opposite direction. Now eight days removed from the Warg attack, he has still not heard from Radagast. Thorin says that it’s too risky to go by Radagast’s apartment, but he did finally concede to allowing Gandalf to turn his phone on briefly twice a day to check for any messages or missed calls, but none have come. In what Bilbo suspects may have been a genuine attempt to comfort him, Dwalin suggests to Gandalf that, had the Wargs indeed managed to overpower Radagast, there would have been some very public display of retaliation, and most likely a body would have turned up by now.

Though the delivery may not have been comforting in the least bit, Bilbo must admit that Dwalin has a point. Things have been strangely quiet. Glóin and Bombur, who are the only two out of the company who aren’t bachelors, have been in contact with their wives via a secure line cell phone that Dís has (for emergencies, as Thorin had explained - good lord, how deep does his paranoia go, Bilbo wonders), explaining the situation. Nothing has happened to either of their families, but neither are willing to risk going home on the off chance that they bring danger with them. Their wives are exceedingly understanding about the whole thing, Bilbo thinks at first, but then realizes that they’re probably used to this sort of thing. Nori also slips away for a bit with the phone, mumbling about needing to warn a ‘business contact’ about his absence (“You know, calling her your girlfriend isn’t going to kill you,” Dori grouses good naturedly at his brother; Nori scowls).

***

On the ninth day after the attack, Bilbo wakes with a start to the sound of shouting and what he thinks must be bodies tumbling down the stairs. This is it, he thinks - things have been suspiciously too quiet and now the Wargs have traced them here and it’s all over. Despite his better judgment, he leaps out of bed, throwing the covers over a very sleepy and confused Bofur. “What’s going on?” Bofur mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Óin and Glóin have both stirred from their air mattress on the ground, also making vague noises of concern at the ruckus. But Bilbo is out the door before he can answer any of them.

He comes skidding around the corner into living room and immediately crashes into something very solid, which knocks him to the ground. He looks up to discover that it’s Thorin, who’s come barreling in from the other door, a mix of adrenaline and sleep, quite at odds with each other, evident on his face. Bilbo hates to admit it, but he’s momentarily distracted by the fact that Thorin is bare chested and wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants. Luckily, Thorin is too preoccupied by the commotion happening at the bottom of the stairs to notice Bilbo being completely useless on the floor.

Bilbo manages (with some effort) to snap his attention back to the present threat. But as he looks over to assess the scene, he realizes that it’s not a threat at all - it’s Fíli and Kíli, wrestling with each other in a mess of tangled limbs on the floor.

Thorin looms over them, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is six o’clock in the goddamn morning,” he rumbles.

“Yeah, but it’s Kíli’s twenty first birthday today,” Fíli grunts out with an effort, as Kíli tightens his grip around his brother’s neck. “He woke me up like this on mine, and now I’m returning the favor.”

“It’ll be his last birthday if you two don’t cut the shit immediately,” Thorin threatens. The brothers still their movements; both, however, refuse to give up their grips on each other entirely. “Now, I’m going back to bed. Try not to kill each other or do anything else that would elicit death or serious bodily harm as an appropriate response from any member of the company, because believe you me, you will be assumed guilty should any situation like that arise.”

Thorin turns and begins to stomp back off towards the study when he catches sight of Bilbo on the floor. He hastily reaches out a hand and hauls Bilbo to his feet, mumbling, “Sorry,” as he does so.

“S’okay,” Bilbo says quickly. “I thought someone had broken into the house.”

Thorin’s face softens, and a bit of a flush creeps into his cheeks. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly. “Everything’s fine.”

Bilbo nods, then toddles off down the hallway. “What was that about?” Bofur asks as Bilbo crawls back into bed.

“Just Fíli and Kíli trying to kill each other.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Bofur mumbles before turning back over and promptly drifting back to sleep.

***

Thorin makes the boys deliver a formal apology to the entire company at breakfast. Dís watches with an amused expression on her face, having slept through the entire ordeal (“Trust me, with two teenage boys in the house, you get used to this sort of shit,” she assures Bilbo).

It takes several hours of persuading, but Thorin is finally worn down enough to be amenable to going out for a proper celebratory bar crawl tonight. They’ve been cooped up in the house for the best part of the week, only a few of them going on small excursions for an hour or two at a time, mostly to the grocery store or to buy new clothes or other necessities for everyone. A night out will do everyone some good.

“It’ll be his last big send off before school starts again,” Fíli says with a chuckle, plopping himself down on the couch next to Bilbo as he watches his brother throw his arms around Thorin’s neck in gratitude for agreeing to their plan.

“Too bad his birthday’s not during the school year,” Bilbo says. “Wouldn’t he much rather go out with his friends than the likes of us?”

Fíli hesitates a moment before saying, “I don’t think so. Kí doesn’t have very many friends at school, I don’t think. He mostly hung around me, but I graduated a few months ago, so I’m not sure what he’ll do without me this year.”

“What did you study, Fíli?” Bilbo asks with interest, propping his elbow up on the arm of the couch and settling his chin into his hand.

“Business,” Fíli says, a bit flatly. “It’s what Uncle wanted, really.” His eyes flicker over to Thorin for a moment, and Bilbo thinks that he might have caught just a hint of resentment in them, but Fíli quickly shakes it off, if it was even there at all.

“What did you want to study?” Bilbo chances.

A beat goes by before Fíli quietly says, “Music. I’ve played the violin since I was five, and I’m not too shabby at the piano either.” He sighs. “But business was more practical. And I’m sure I’ll be useful to Thorin if this whole crazy plan to take back Arkenstone Enterprises succeeds.”

“I was the same as you, back in my day,” Bilbo admits. Fíli turns to look at him sharply. “I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to study, if I was being honest. But I was an only child, and our farm has been in the family for generations, so I never really had much of a say in the matter. It was business and agriculture at the local college, and then straight back home for me.”

Fíli looks as if he wants to say something, but they’re interrupted by Kíli yelling, “Shots before we go!” followed by a good amount of whooping from the rest of the company.

“Come on, then,” Bilbo says, patting Fíli’s knee before pushing himself up off the couch. “Let’s give your brother a twenty first birthday to remember.”

***

By the time they reach the third bar, Bilbo thinks he might have made a mistake. He’s certainly made a poor choice with his drink trajectory, choosing liquor over beer for the evening, and his inhibitions are lowering much faster than he’d care to admit. He’s just glad he’s not the only one who’s struggling, though; at least half of the company are in the same boat, and the other half aren’t far behind. Only Nori and - surprisingly - Ori seem to be holding themselves together considerably well. Kíli, on the other hand, has already had to be led outside once by his brother to throw up in some nearby bushes. He’d rebounded almost immediately though, and Bilbo had to laugh at his youthful drinking stamina

He starts a bit as someone presses another whiskey soda into his hands. It’s Thorin.

“Thanks,” Bilbo mumbles; Thorin hums in acknowledgement.

Thorin had been a bit high strung at the first bar, Bilbo had noticed, his eyes darting over to the door every few seconds, as if expecting the Wargs to come charging in any minute. He’d relaxed a bit at the second bar, until Bofur had gotten all of them kicked out after he’d taken it upon himself to convert a table into a makeshift stage and had led the entire bar in a rather whimsical drinking song, dedicated to Kíli, of course. Thorin’s anxiety had come back with a vengeance when they’d found themselves out on the street with no plan of where they were going next, until Kíli had simply marched them to the next closest bar he was able to find. Once inside, Thorin had immediately downed two shots of tequila, which he had earlier sworn he would not touch tonight (Fíli had let out a low whistle at the sight, and had informed Bilbo that Thorin and tequila did not mix or bode well for the rest of the night; at this, Bilbo had gently suggested that he switch back to whiskey).

Whiskey is what Thorin has clutched in his hand now. He’s swaying a bit unconsciously on his feet, and is standing just a little too close to Bilbo. Bilbo doesn’t mind, though. Thorin is radiating a rather pleasant heat, and Bilbo finds himself leaning in a little bit closer until he’s pitched at a slightly odd angle on the edge of his bar stool, his shoulder resting comfortably against Thorin’s chest. To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin doesn’t move away. Rather, he leans closer, and suddenly Bilbo’s heart is racing, his stomach is dropping, and his face is flushing, all simultaneously. The suddenness of… _everything_ that’s just happened renders him momentarily incapable of doing anything besides gawking up Thorin. And Thorin has the gall to look _amused_ at this new development. Bilbo can feel the vibrations of a deep chuckle rumbling in Thorin’s chest. Thorin then leans down to nuzzle his face into the top of Bilbo’s head, and Bilbo swears he can feel what might have been a soft kiss being planted into his curls. That’s it - god can strike him down right here and now. He’s been reduced to nothing more than a puddle of _gay_ and _useless_. It would be a mercy kill.

Suddenly there’s an eruption of noise from the other end of the bar. Bilbo starts, and almost goes pitching off his bar stool, but is saved at the last second by Thorin throwing out an arm to catch him. The sound of shouting and glass breaking, obviously the preludes to a fight, send Bilbo’s anxiety into hyperdrive, and for a horrible moment, he’s back at Bofur’s pub; Thorin is crumpled on the ground in front of him and Bofur is bleeding and the boys are yelling and someone is standing over him with a bat. But then he manages to shake it off, and Thorin - one with both of his shoulders in the correct locations - swims back into focus before him. Bilbo takes it all back - he doesn’t want to die in this bar anymore, not now that there’s a real threat of him dying as a result of this apparent brawl instead of him dying from embarrassment at Thorin’s stupidly, ridiculously handsome face. Christ, Bilbo - pull it together!

Focusing on this new disruption, Bilbo sees several men tussling about at the end of the bar. The entire bar seems to be shouting now, including Thorin. “Get out of here!” he yells to the company. His arm, still wrapped about Bilbo, tightens around his ribs and he drags him to his feet. Bilbo watches him look instinctively around for Fíli and Kíli, who luckily still have the good sense to dart towards him, despite how shit faced they both currently are. And Bilbo isn’t far behind them, he realizes as he finds it quite difficult to put one foot in front of the other as they scramble towards the door.

If Bilbo is anxious, then Thorin must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, judging by the look of sheer panic and pain on his face as he shepherds the company out of the front door. Once he’s satisfied with a quick count of everyone who’s run past him (twelve, plus Bilbo and Thorin; Dís and Gandalf had respectfully backed out of the evening’s plans), he grabs Bilbo’s hand and pulls him outside the bar. Everyone is clearly on edge, the memory of their own bar brawl too fresh and painful in their minds. Someone makes the decision to run from the scene, and pack mentality kicks in all too quickly as everyone else follows suit. Thorin still holds Bilbo’s hand as they run, but Bilbo is far too stunned by what’s just happened to say anything about it.

Suddenly the sound of screeching tires comes up on them, too quickly for Bilbo’s liking. An unmarked, white van swerves up onto the sidewalk in front of them, blocking their progress forward. Before they can even turn around, they hear a second van screech to a halt behind them, effectively trapping them. Bilbo gulps.

The doors fling open, and a bunch of men dressed in black with ski masks over their faces charge at the company. It’s utter chaos. Punches are flying and bodies are smacking into each other. Bilbo and Thorin are knocked apart, and Bilbo stumbles about drunkenly to keep his feet. Oh course this was happening to them while they were all inebriated - why would Bilbo have suspected anything else?

To no one’s surprise, the sober attackers quickly emerge victorious. Bilbo’s hands are zip tied behind his back (this is becoming an all too familiar feeling, Bilbo thinks ruefully), and a black bag is pulled over his head. He hears a scuffle break out just to his right - he thinks Kíli had been next to him; bless his heart, what a rotten birthday - and then suddenly he feels a sharp blow to the side of his head, and he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	9. Chapter 9

Bilbo comes to slowly. Or at least, he thinks he does. He’s pretty sure that his eyes are open, but it’s pitch black and he can’t see a thing. He rolls his shoulders, which are stiffer than you’d believe; as he does, it causes him to realize quickly that his hands are bound behind his back. Then it all comes flooding back to him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles.

“Bilbo!” That’s Thorin, who’s somewhere across from him, Bilbo reckons.

“Shut up!” an unfamiliar, gravelly voice snaps.

“I’m okay,” Bilbo reassures him.

“I mean it - be quiet!” It’s the new voice again.

A beat goes by, and then Thorin says very quietly, “You weren’t moving.”

The voice lets out an audible growl, and then there’s a bit of movement, followed by a horrible _smack_ , which sounds awfully like the butt of a gun making contact with someone’s face. Bilbo winces. To Thorin’s credit, he doesn’t cry out - only spits loudly a second later, what Bilbo can only assume is blood based on the sound it makes leaving his mouth. In this moment, Bilbo is glad that he can’t see anything.

They’re in the back of one of the vans, that much he can tell. He’s unsure exactly how long he’s been out, so there’s no way to know how far they’ve traveled. He knows they’re being guarded and meant to be kept quiet, based on the incident that’s just occurred. And what he also knows is that he’s never been more afraid in his life. He really has to stop out-doing himself, Bilbo thinks. The first time he’d said that had been the incident with the Troll Triplets, and then it was replaced with the incident with the Wargs. He’d so foolishly thought that the worst might have been behind them at this point. How wrong he was.

After a while, the van slows down and then comes to a stop. Bilbo can hear the heavy sound of what must be some kind of gate opening outside, and then they’re moving again. It’s not long before they stop a second time, and then the engine cuts out. Bilbo hears the front doors open and close, and then the back door is opened. Someone barks at them to move, and then someone else is roughly hauling Bilbo to his feet, guiding his steps as he stumbles out of the van. He’s pushed along for a little while, stumbling blind in the darkness with the bag still over his head. Eventually his progress is stopped when he walks into something solid, which, “Oofs,” in annoyance at the unexpected collision; it sounds suspiciously like Dori.

Without warning, the bag is suddenly jerked off of Bilbo’s head. He blinks rapidly, bright light assaulting his eyes as he tries his best to focus. After several painful seconds, he’s able to see that they’re in what appears to be a large warehouse. They’re stood on a cold concrete floor; aluminum walls run up to a high ceiling. A lone, large window sits high up on the wall to the left, letting in a warm glow from what must be a street lamp outside. There’s a maze of metal shelves in front of them and to their right. Large crates are scattered about, the vast majority of which are clumped directly in front of them, formed into what Bilbo can only describe as some kind of makeshift throne. In the middle of these crates is a large wooden Adirondack chair, and in the chair sits a large, plump man with sallow skin and beady eyes. Once all of the company have been de-bagged, he speaks.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Thorin Oakenshield,” the man sneers. “Heir to Arkenstone Enterprises.” His top lip curls into a snarl. “Oh - but I’m forgetting: you don’t have a company - only partial ownership in a sorry excuse for a pub fronting an illegal gambling operation. Which makes you what - a petty criminal, at best? How droll.”

Thorin, who is directly to Bilbo’s left, says nothing, but stands there, seething silently. His bottom lip is split and bloody from the incident in the van, and there’s a good amount of blood and spit stained down the front of his shirt.

“It’s been quite a while since we’ve heard from you,” the man drawls on. “Thought you might have learned your lesson after your father’s - shall we say - untimely death?”

 _That_ elicits a growl from Thorin.

“Oh, struck a nerve, have we?” the man chortles. “You Oakenshields never did learn when to quit, except for your coward father. His sensibility hasn’t been passed down to you, I see. Oh, no - you’ve gone and tangled yourself up my boss again. You know, he wasn’t very pleased to hear about what happened to the Troll Triplets. They were good workers, those boys. Never asked too many questions; very efficient.”

Bilbo’s stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot at the words ‘my boss’ as he realizes that the man before them can be no other than Chadwick Murray, Smaug’s financial adviser. ‘The Great Goblin,’ Dwalin had called him, if Bilbo was not mistaken. And he has to agree with the nickname - the man in front of them looks as if he’s quite possibly spent the last ten or so years of his life locked in an underground bunker without the faintest hint of daylight. And if Murray has them trapped here, then Smaug cannot be far behind. The faster Bilbo’s brain whirls, the more he begins to think that their chances of living to see the morning are growing rather slim indeed.

“And then - _and then_ \- ” Murray slaps a hand onto his knee and lets out a bark of laughter - “you went and got yourself mixed up with the Wargs, of all people! Oh, what a stupid thing to do. Don’t you know that they report directly to me these days?”

There’s a good chorus of laughter from the men surrounding the company. Bilbo chances a quick glance around, and his stomach drops as he recognizes several faces from the fight in the pub, mixed in with several unfamiliar ones. Murray waves a hand, effectively silencing the laughter, before he pushes himself - with no small effort - out of his chair. He steps down from the throne of crates and stomps forward until he is stood directly in front of Thorin. “You’re up to something, Oakenshield,” he says slyly. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re planning, hmm? Surely you wouldn’t have gathered such a motley crew around you if you didn’t have some sort of nasty plan up your sleeve. Why don’t you tell me, and then maybe you and I can make a deal. You could walk, if you play your cards right. What d’you say?”

Thorin draws himself up to his full height, staring stonily into Murray’s face with a hard, unreadable expression. This lasts for what feels like a lifetime, before he spits out another mouthful of bloody saliva at Murray’s feet.

“Have it your way, then,” Murray says with a sigh, before turning around and stumping back up onto his throne. He throws himself down dramatically, sprawling sideways, his feet hooked over one arm of the chair. “I know someone who’d pay a pretty price for your head,” he continues. “Just the head - nothing attached.” He whips a cell phone out of his pocket, presses a few buttons, and holds it up to his ear. “He’s here,” he says curtly after several seconds, and then immediately cuts the call.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin scoffs. “I didn’t think your boss would be so stupid to answer an unencrypted call,” he says, his voice dripping with a venom that Bilbo has never heard it contain before.

Murray’s’ laughter booms out and echoes about the warehouse. “Oh, that wasn’t Smaug who I called,” he says. “Smaug might be my boss, but there are others out there who’d pay me a lot more to take a crack at you, as I’m sure you’re aware.” A malevolent grin creeps onto his face. “Tommy Azog has some unfinished business with your family, does he not?”

Bilbo watches as all of the color drains from Thorin’s face. His eyes flicker over Fíli and Kíli in concern; Murray doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, so these must be your sister’s spawns,” he sneers, gesturing towards the boys. Fíli steps protectively in front of his brother, scowling hard at Murray, who chuckles. “She always had a good head about her; kept out of trouble, knew when she’d lost a fight. Unfortunately they take after you, I see,” Murray says. “Hard headed, stubborn things, if I might venture a guess. I’d normally say it’s a shame they’re going to die so young, but the truth is, I don’t really care.” He smiles wickedly at them, and Bilbo feels a swell of protective anger surge up inside of him. What he wouldn’t give to rip Murray’s head clean off his shoulders right now.

“I’ll kill you if you touch them!” Thorin bellows, taking a menacing step towards Murray before he’s shoved roughly backwards by one of the guards.

“Kill me? With what weapon, might I ask?” Murray mocks. “It’s over, Oakenshield. I have you right where I want you. And no one’s coming to save you now.”

And then, almost as if on some ironic cue, there’s a loud, fizzing _pop_ behind where the company are stood, and a moment later a cloud of pink smoke begins to drift through the door and into the room. A figure emerges from the smoke, tripping towards them in hurried fright. Of all the people Bilbo might have expected to see tonight, his uncle Gandalf had not been one of them. But here he is, yelping and waving his arms frantically as he tries his best to get away from the smoke. Bilbo’s mouth drops open in surprise.

A moment later, the sound of breaking glass is heard in the room, and Bilbo turns his head just in time to see several small objects come hurdling in through the now broken window to his left. Oh, no - _oh, no_.

“Grenade!” someone shouts, and before Bilbo has time to do anything else, there’s an explosion of sound and light and a great pulse emanates throughout the room. Bilbo is knocked back by the force, landing hard on his side. It takes him several moments before he can even manage to sit up. He can’t see well and his ears are ringing and - Jesus Christ, had that not been a stun grenade they all would have been dead.

“Bilbo? _Bilbo_!”

Thorin’s face comes swimming into view, framed from behind by a disorientingly bright light. Bilbo blinks hard, shaking his head and trying to focus. Thorin’s voice sounds disproportionately distant from where his face is, almost as if he’s speaking to Bilbo from underwater.

“We have to go - come on!”

Bilbo scrambles to his feet and takes off at a run. Most of the company have righted themselves and are following suit. Luckily, all of their guards seem to be too disoriented to do anything. The ones that have gotten back to their feet are looking helplessly at Murray, as if waiting for instruction. Despite the situation, Bilbo can’t help but crack a smile as he dashes past and sees Murray hopelessly tangled in his chair, one leg caught and twisted at what has to be the world’s most uncomfortable angle.

Several more objects come flying through the window just then. The sound of smashing glass rings out, and then several fires erupt where the bottles had landed. Based on the overall confusion that’s unfolding around him, Bilbo can only guess that a rather disgruntled third party has arrived outside - and just whose side they’re on remains to be seen.

Bilbo follows Thorin into the maze of shelving ahead of them. They run for a bit, turning down aisle after aisle, until they’ve traveled what they can only guess to be a safe enough distance into the maze, and come skidding to a stop around a corner.

“Thorin, what the fuck is going on?” Bilbo pants, throwing himself onto the ground as he attempts to catch his breath.

“I don’t know,” Thorin says weakly, his voice wavering slightly. For the first time, Bilbo thinks that he’s afraid.

Suddenly they can hear the sound of approaching footsteps thundering towards them. Thorin steps in front of Bilbo, putting himself between him and the newcomer, but they’re both relieved a moment later as it’s Nori who pops out from around the corner. His hands are unbound, and he’s clutching a piece of broken glass in his hand. “Nicked this from one of the molotov cocktails,” he says with a cheeky grin. Bilbo winces, though, as he catches sight of Nori’s other hand. The end of his sleeve is charred, and there’s an angry, red burn across his wrist, as well as a fresh gash that’s still dripping blood from where he had obviously cut himself free.

“Nori, you beautiful bastard,” Thorin says, a genuine smile breaking across his face.

“At your service,” Nori says, sweeping into a low, mocking bow before quickly cutting the ties around Thorin and Bilbo’s wrists.

The three venture on into the maze, and after a short while they manage to recollect the company and free all of their bounds. This accomplishment is a small miracle, in Bilbo’s book, considering that not a single one of them is completely sober, though the adrenaline is currently doing its best to push the booze out of his system They can hear Murray screaming at his men in the distance to find the company. The only one presently unaccounted for is Gandalf, and it’s not long before they come across him while rounding a corner, locked in a scuffle with one of the guards. Dwalin leaps forward onto the man’s back, pulling him roughly down onto the floor. Kíli darts forward and kicks him in the hand, knocking his gun out of reach, just as Bifur aims another kick at his head. It’s a frighteningly powerful blow, and the man instantly goes limp in Dwalin’s grasp. Gandalf bends to pick up the dropped weapon.

“Good shot, mate,” Bofur says weakly, looking at his cousin with a slightly dumbfounded expression on his face. Bifur signs something rapidly to Bofur, who merely nods, the color draining from his face slightly; he chooses not to translate the message out loud.

“Come on, we have to get out of here,” Thorin says. “Head for the door in the back - there must be an exit that way. Stay together.”

The company make their way back towards the direction they had come from. Up ahead, Bilbo can see the space where they’d been standing earlier. Thankfully, it looks as if the guards have cleared out in search for the missing company, and that most of the fires had already burned themselves out, leaving a mostly clear path. They’re almost free, Bilbo thinks. Just a little bit further.

Suddenly Thorin, who’d been in the lead by a good few paces, is knocked violently to the ground by an outstretched arm that’s extended from the other side of the crate throne. He falls, spluttering and clutching at his throat in pain. Bilbo crouches in an attempt to pick him up, but freezes momentarily as Murray’s large frame steps out from behind the crates and looms menacingly over them.

“Well, well, well - what are you going to do now, Oakenshield?” he sneers.

Before either Bilbo or Thorin can even react, a single shot rings out from behind them, and Bilbo watches as Murray’s form collapses in front of them with a freshly acquired bullet wound in his chest. Bilbo whips around to see - once again, Jesus Christ - Gandalf holding the gun out in front of him. Bilbo has a million things he wants to say to his uncle right now, but the connection between his brain and his mouth has short circuited. Instead, - and he’s not quite sure why he does - he merely reaches towards his uncle and gently takes the gun from his shaking hands. Thorin scrambles to his feet, and then they’re off again.

The company stumbles through the door and into another room. The vans are parked in there, as well as several jeeps. They dash past them and through an opening at the other end of the room, and suddenly find themselves outside in a parking lot. Just as they’re wondering where to go from here, four unmarked, black cars come screeching around the corner of the building, coming to a stop before the company. The front passenger’s side window of the closest car rolls down to reveal and a man in a black suit in the driver’s seat. “Get in the cars,” he says sharply.

“Who are you?” Thorin croaks out, his voice still weak from the earlier assault.

“We’re with Eagle Branch,” the man says curtly. “Just get in the damn car, sir.”

Just then there’s a good deal of shouting behind the company, and Bilbo looks behind them to see several of Murray’s men charging outside towards where they’re standing, and he can hear what sounds like engines springing to life just inside of the warehouse. He turns to look at Thorin. “Not much of a choice,” he says. Thorin looks at him a moment, and then nods.

Thorin wrenches the back door of the closest car open and pushes Kíli inside, and then climbs in after him. Bilbo dives into the third seat in the back, and Fíli jumps in the front. Once the company is loaded, the cars take off, forming a caravan out of the parking lot. Bilbo’s car is the last to go.

“Where are you taking us?” Thorin asks.

“Away from here,” the driver answers vaguely.

“Strangest Uber I’ve ever been in,” Kíli says. Thorin rolls his eyes at his nephew, and looks as if he’s trying very hard not to punch the loopy grin from Kíli’s face.

Much to Bilbo’s disliking, the car is suddenly flooded with light as the high beams from the jeep that’s trailing behind flash on. He turns around to see two jeeps, each one loaded with several of Murray’s men, some of whom are stood up in the uncovered back; several are armed. Bilbo gulps.

Their driver touches the earpiece that he’s wearing. “Split up,” he orders, and then suddenly jerks the wheel, turning the car abruptly to the left and down a side street. One jeep follows them; the second speeds on after the other cars.

The chase continues; Bilbo feels as if he’s going to be sick. Their driver is doing an excellent job of weaving in and out of side streets. Unfortunately, the jeep’s driver is also very good and stays with them. At this time of night, there’s hardly any traffic out on the streets, making them easier to keep pace with.

They turn down another street, this one wider than the last. To Bilbo’s horror, the jeep behind them suddenly speeds up until it’s level with the car. Two of Murray’s men lean out of the back and reach towards them. Their driver makes to slam his hand down on the lock button on his door, but it’s too late - Bilbo’s door is ripped open, and before he can move, the men are grabbing at him roughly, trying to pull him from the car.

“Bilbo - no!” Thorin shouts, lunging forward to try to grab Bilbo. He palms onto Bilbo’s arm, but just as he does, the driver swerves the car, trying to get away from the jeep. Unfortunately, the shift in direction has the opposite of the desired effect, and Bilbo is thrown off balance just enough to slip from Thorin’s grasp and towards the door. Before he knows it, he’s tumbling out of the car. By some miracle, he manages to fall directly between the two vehicles, also evading both the grip of Murray’s men and being run over back by a back tire, and he hits the ground hard. Neither vehicle stops.

Bilbo watches in horror as the jeep continues to pursue the car down the street. Obviously, Thorin was their target; Bilbo was nothing to them. Quickly they disappear from sight, and Bilbo is left alone in the dark street, winded, bruised, afraid, and still clutching onto the hand gun he’d taken from Gandalf like his life depends on. He’s terrified of what’s going to happen to Thorin and the boys, but he’s also terrified at what could happen if the jeep chooses to come back for him.

He takes off at a run, and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	10. Chapter 10

Bilbo is hopelessly lost.

He shivers despite the mild early August warmth that’s still lingering in the air, even though it must be well past midnight by now. After stumbling down side street after side street, Bilbo had eventually found himself in a labyrinth of condemned apartment buildings, which looked as if efforts to tear them down had been halted mid-project. The occasional street light is still lit, though many have busted bulbs, or are flicking eerily, disrupting the otherwise suffocating darkness that surrounds the buildings.

Bilbo gulps, and tries his cell phone again. He was glad that Thorin had seen fit to return everyone’s phones to them before they had set out for the evening, for use in ‘emergencies only,’ he had said. And this was certainly an emergency if there ever was one. Much to Bilbo’s dismay, he still doesn’t have service. He gloomily shoves the phone back into his pocket, and walks on into the maze of buildings, giving the ground a swift kick out of frustration as he goes.

He starts as his foot makes contact with something small on the ground; it goes skittering out in front of him, clacking as it drags across the pavement. Bilbo stoops to pick it up. It’s a small, black flash drive, from the looks of it. As he turns it over in his hands to examine it, his stomach drops and his mouth quickly drys up. Printed on the side in small, gold lettering are two words: “Arkenstone Enterprises.”

What on earth has he just found?

Whatever it is, it’s far from home, and left behind on accident, Bilbo suspects. He begins to sweat nervously as he starts to think of how this came to end up on the ground in this very peculiar spot. Has he just wandered into some kind of dead drop zone for Smaug’s men? Or maybe Smaug is overseeing the demolition of these buildings, possibly using the money from Arkenstone Enterprises to build something else here? Or have Murray’s men come back for him? Maybe this fell out of one of their pockets?

Well, the exact explanation doesn’t matter right now, Bilbo decides. What matters is that he keeps moving, and finds a way out of here. He pockets the flash drive and walks on.

He hasn’t gone far before he thinks he hears - and not for the first time - the sound of footsteps following him. He whips his head around, but sees no one. God, he’s becoming as paranoid as Thorin normally is. He takes a few more steps forward - and there it is again! Panic begins to fill Bilbo once more, and he takes off at a run.

He only makes it a few dozen yards before he just catches a glimpse of what he thinks is a leg extending out from behind a dumpster, and then he’s falling hard towards the ground as he trips. He throws his hands out to break his fall. He can feel the skin on his knuckles break and split open as he lands; the hand gun he’d grabbed from Gandalf back in the warehouse digs painfully into his side from where he’s stashed it in his jacket pocket.

He rolls over to face his apparent assailant, and looks up to see a slim, dirty man in a dingy, tan trench coat, a green beanie that’s seen better days, and frayed, gray, knitted fingerless gloves. He’s crouched down over Bilbo, his head cocked at an angle, looking at him curiously through large, pale blue eyes.

“Well, Precious, that’s a meaty mouthful,” the man croaks. “What are you doing here?”

Unable to help himself, Bilbo lets out a small squeak before he’s able to find his voice. “What am I doing here?” he stammers. “Just - just passing through.” The man simply stares at him; it’s unnerving. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Bilbo says, “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” the man says flatly.

“But - ”

“I’m homeless, you twat!” he spits. “And who are you, anyway?”

“Baggins is my name,” Bilbo says shakily.

“Baggins?” the man parrots back. “That’s a name we’ve heard on the chatter, Precious.”

Bilbo’s blood turns cold. “What chatter?” he stammers.

“Mustn't ask us, not its business,” the man snaps. Then a shadow crosses over his face, and Bilbo thinks for half a second that his features actually change and darken. No - it’s just the light playing tricks on his eyes. “But _they_ might want to know about Baggins, Precious - they might,” the man continues quietly, more to himself than to Bilbo. He stretches out a pale hand towards Bilbo, as if to grab him.

Bilbo scrambles back on the ground until his progress is stopped by several trash bags that are piled next to the dumpster, and he instinctively reaches for the gun in his pocket. He points it at the man, his hand shaking. He’s never used a gun before in his life, and he prays he doesn’t have to do anymore more than hold it now. The man hisses out a breath and shrinks back. “Stay back,” Bilbo warns. “I’ll use this, if I have to.” His voice is wavering, and he feels as if he’s going to be sick. “I just want to find a way out of here, and then I’ll be out of your hair. So just show me which direction to go, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Why?” the man asks. “Why should we help you?” He straightens and begins to pace around Bilbo. His steps are deliberate and a bit menacing, but he keeps his distance, his eyes resting warily on the gun.

“Look, I don’t know what your game is - ” Bilbo starts.

“Games?” the man yelps, cutting him off. “Oh, we love games, don’t we, Precious?”

Bilbo is getting more and more confused as the seconds go on. The man seems quite manic, and not a hundred percent there. Bilbo, however, thinks he might be able to use this to his advantage. “How about we have a game of riddles, then?” he asks. The man’s eyes brighten, and he nods slowly in agreement. “If I win,” Bilbo continues, “you show me the way out.”

“And if we win,” the man says, “we get the gun. And your clothes.”

Bilbo nods curtly. “Fair enough.”

“Well, Baggins first,” the man says, gesturing at Bilbo with a flip of his hand.

“Not until you tell me your name,” Bilbo says. “I told you mine, now it’s only fair that you give me yours.”

“They call me Gollum,” the man says. “Now get on with it.”

Bilbo thinks a moment, and then says, “Thirty white horses on a red hill. First they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.”

Gollum’s eyes squeeze shut in concentration, and another breath hisses out between his lips. “Teeth?” he finally croaks out. Bilbo’s face falls at the word, and Gollum sees that he’s correct. “Teeth!” he says again with a strange, almost gleeful tone to his voice.

“Okay, your turn,” Bilbo says glumly.

“Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters. Toothless bites, mouthless mutters,” Gollum says.

Bilbo lets out a low breath. The riddle sounds familiar - he just can’t remember the answer. He racks his brain while Gollum stares intently at him. A soft breeze sweeps in through the buildings just then, rustling his honey brown curls gently. A smile creeps onto his face as the answer - quite literally - hits him. “Wind,” Bilbo says, rather pleased with himself.

Gollum scowls. “Ask us another one,” he grits out, obviously displeased with how the game has gone thus far.

“A box without hinges, key, or a lid,” Bilbo says, “yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

Gollum growls in annoyance, and it takes everything in Bilbo not to crack a smile at this new development. He thinks he may have just stumped his opponent, for indeed Gollum looks as if he might be in some amount of physical pain due to how hard he’s thinking, judging by his current facial expression. Then all the sudden his eyes snap open and his expression brightens. “Egg!” he shouts.

Bilbo rolls his eyes. "Right, again,” he grumbles.

“Our turn,” Gollum says. “All things it devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel, turns hard stones to meal. Slays king, ruins town, beats high mountain down.”

Bilbo’s stomach drops; he doesn’t know this one. He paces back and forth in front of Gollum, who’s grinning at him wickedly. “Well?” Gollum prompts after several long seconds of silence.

“Just let me think,” Bilbo snaps. “I gave you a good long while.”

Gollum rolls his eyes, and waits about ten seconds before saying, “Time’s up.”

It hits Bilbo like a ton of bricks. “Time,” he says quickly. “The answer is time.”

Gollum lets out a shriek of frustration as he realizes that he’s sabotaged his own efforts. “One more question,” he growls, pointing a finger menacingly at Bilbo.

Bilbo’s mind goes blank; not a single riddle is coming to him. Gollum stares at him expectantly. His left hand fiddles about absently with the end of his jacket, and eventually slips into his pocket, where it brushes up against something small. “What have I got in my pocket?” he mumbles to himself, momentarily forgetting that Gollum is listening.

“What?” Gollum asks flatly. Bilbo’s eyes snap up onto the other man and he quickly pulls his hand from his pocket in surprise. “What kind of shit question is that?” Gollum spits. “Ask us another one.”

“No, no - ” Bilbo says quickly. “You said ask you a question. Well, that is my question: what have I got in my pocket?”

“I get three guesses,” Gollum barks.

“Fair enough.”

“Hands,” Gollum says. Bilbo quickly holds both of his up; one holds the gun and the other is empty. Gollum scowls, then thinks for a few seconds. “Knife?” he eventually says.

“I have a gun - why would I need a knife?” Bilbo says.

Gollum palms a hand over his face in frustration, and Bilbo can feel just a sliver of hope start to form in his chest. The question has clearly thrown Gollum off his game, and he’s panicking; this could be good for Bilbo.

In one last, desperate effort, Gollum shouts, “String! Or nothing,” he adds quickly, narrowing his eyes at Bilbo.

“That’s two guesses at once, you cheater,” Bilbo says. “But unfortunately, they’re both wrong.” Gollum groans miserably and sinks to his knees in defeat. “Well, I won,” Bilbo says a bit smugly. “And you promised you’d show me the way out if I did. Now, hop to.” He motions with the gun, gesturing for Gollum to stand up.

“Did we say so, Precious? Did we say so?” Gollum mutters.

Bilbo frowns. “Yeah, you did,” he says.

Gollum looks up at him, a strange, unsettling expression on his face. “Well, Baggins might not have a knife,” he says slowly, “but we do!” His hand dives into the pocket of his trench coat and fumbles around for a second, before he abruptly freezes, all the color draining from his face. He pulls out a small shank and quickly moves it to his other hand, and then goes back into the pocket to dig around further, muttering, “Where is it? _Where is it_?” under his breath. “It’s lost!” he shrieks. “My Precious is lost!”

“What have you lost?” Bilbo asks, staring at Gollum in confusion. Luckily, this new development seems to have made Gollum momentarily forget about the weapon clutched in his other hand.

Gollum’s eyes snap up to Bilbo, and they narrow again in a burning, accusing stare. “What’s in your pocket?” he growls.

Bilbo gulps. Has he misjudged Gollum? Could he be working for Smaug? Was that his flash drive that is indeed now in Bilbo’s pocket?

“That’s none of your concern,” Bilbo snaps.

“Oh, I think it is,” Gollum hisses icily.

All of the sudden, he lunges forward at Bilbo. Bilbo’s brain forgets that he is, in fact, holding a gun; he ducks out of the way instead, narrowly avoiding a wild punch from Gollum, the shank protruding out from his closed fist whizzing by Bilbo’s head. Bilbo stoops and picks up one of the trash bags next to him and chucks it at Gollum. It hits his square in the chest with just enough force to knock him off balance and send him stumbling back a few feet. Not knowing what else to do, Bilbo turns and runs.

He sprints further into the maze of buildings, neither knowing nor caring what direction he’s going in, so long as it’s away from Gollum. He weaves through the steel frames of one building’s exposed foundation, tearing through a series of tarps that are hung about. He can hear Gollum shrieking behind him, but he’s too scared to look back to see if he’s being pursued. He runs faster; he’s not going to die here, lost and alone and without his friends.

Bilbo has to stop himself from screaming as his phone suddenly starts vibrating in his back pocket, scaring the living daylights out of him. Finally, he has a signal! He barely has enough time to look at the screen and register that it’s Thorin who’s calling before he answers. “Thorin!”

“Bilbo!”

My god, it’s good to hear a familiar voice right now.

“Thorin, you have to come get me,” Bilbo pants as he ducks into another building. “There’s a hobo chasing me and he wants to kill me.”

“...What?”

“Just come get me!” Bilbo shouts.

“Okay,” Thorin says. “Just don’t hang up. I’m tracking you, and you’re nearby.”

Relief floods through Bilbo at those words. “Thorin, I’m scared,” he admits quietly.

“Just keep going, Bilbo,” Thorin says reassuringly. “I can see you on the GPS. I need you to turn left for me.”

Bilbo does as requested, and it’s not long before he bursts out of a building and he can see that he’s come to the edge of the complex. He hears the sound of a car approaching, and moments later one of the black cars from earlier comes screeching around the corner and stops right in front of Bilbo, who jumps into the passenger seat without hesitation, slamming the door behind him. Thorin is driving.

“Bilbo, are you hurt?” Thorin yelps. His eyes sweep over Bilbo in concern, and he reaches out to run his hands over his shoulders and arms, assessing for any possible injuries.

Bilbo smacks his hands away. “Just drive!” he shouts.

Thorin immediately releases him, startled, and then puts his foot down on the gas, and they begin to speed away. Bilbo thinks he’s going to be sick. His breath is coming out in ragged, short gasps, and he can’t seem to catch it. He looks down at the the gun that’s still clutched in his shaking hands, and he lets it go slowly, watching as it falls onto the floor in front of him. He stares blankly out of the window, vaguely registering the dark, blurry buildings that they’re speeding past. Is this what shock feels like?

“He knew my name, Thorin,” Bilbo croaks out weakly after a time. He can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, and he swallows hard against the lump that’s formed in his throat in an effort to try to stop them.

“Who?”

“The hobo. He said he’d heard my name before. And I found - I found…” His voice breaks, and he suddenly finds that he can’t say anything else.

Without warning, Thorin veers the car into an abandoned parking lot and cuts the engine. He turns to look at Bilbo. “Are you okay?” he asks weakly.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo says vacantly.

“No you’re not - you’re shaking,” Thorin snaps.

He reaches out and cups Bilbo’s face in his hands, turning it so that the two are face-to-face so that he can get a good look at him. At this, Bilbo stops breathing; he stop thinking; he stops everything. And before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches out and fists a hand into Thorin’s hair, and pulls him down for a fumbling kiss. Thorin lets out a small noise of surprise, which is muffled against Bilbo’s lips, but to his credit, he wastes no time in responding to Bilbo’s efforts. The kiss is sloppy and imperfect, but, my god - it’s everything.

Eventually Bilbo pulls away, and rests his forehead against Thorin’s. “I almost died,” he pants out, staring Thorin hard in the face for a few seconds before leaning back in and kissing him again. He scrambles out of his seat and over the center console and settles himself on Thorin’s lap, suddenly needing to get as much contact with Thorin as possible. Because he’s still scared, still reeling from his earlier encounter with Gollum, and because Thorin makes him feel safe. And as if he’s broadcasting these thoughts out loud, Thorin wraps his arms tighter around Bilbo, pulling him flush against his chest. Bilbo grips desperately onto the collar of Thorin’s blood stained shirt, if just to be able to anchor himself to something as Thorin begins to trail hot, open mouthed kisses down Bilbo’s neck. He nips gently at Bilbo’s pulse point, and Bilbo feels a shudder run down his spine.

Thorin moves his hands down to Bilbo’s hips. As he does, they brush against the bottom of Bilbo’s jacket, causing it to shift slightly. It’s enough to snap Bilbo’s mind back to what happened earlier.

He pulls back quickly from Thorin. “I found something,” he says. Thorin looks momentarily put out by the loss of contact, but as soon as Bilbo pulls the flash drive out of his pocket and holds it up for Thorin to see, his gaze snaps intently onto it, and his brows furrow as his eyes scan over the two words printed on its side.

“Where did you find this?” he asks quietly, taking the flash drive from Bilbo, and turning it over gently in one hand; his other hand moves to Bilbo’s back and he begins to rub gentle, absent circles into it.

“On the ground, back in that complex,” Bilbo says. “I think it belonged to the hobo who found me. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s important, because he tried to stab me when he guessed that I had it.”

Thorin’s face crumples. “I”m so sorry I’ve put you in so much danger,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to Bilbo’s lips. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.” His eyes are bright now, and his voice waivers on the last word.

“It’s okay,” Bilbo says soothingly, tucking an arrant strand of Thorin’s hair behind his ear.

“No, it’s not,” Thorin huffs.

Bilbo lets out a sigh. “You’re right - it’s not,” he admits. “But then again…” he pauses, and a shy smile begins to creep onto his face. “I might not have had the nerve to kiss you if I hadn’t been so scared for my life tonight.”

Thorin chuckles, and Bilbo can feel the vibration against his chest. He leans into it slightly; it makes him feel warm and secure. Thorin kisses him again. “I meant to tell you earlier,” he says. “But I was afraid things might have been one-sided on my part.” A faint blush creeps onto his cheeks, and Bilbo can’t help but smile. He leans forward and captures Thorin’s lips with his own, trying his best to convey through the kiss that this is _anything_ but one-sided.

Suddenly Thorin’s phone begins to ring, breaking the moment. Dwalin’s name is on the call screen. Bilbo reluctantly climbs back into his own seat to give Thorin unrestricted use of his arms.

“It’s okay - I’ve got him,” Thorin says as soon as he answers the call. “Are you still in the same place? Okay, we’re coming back. And turn your phone off and throw it away - it’s not safe anymore.”

He hangs up and turns to look at Bilbo. “Give me your phone.” Thorin pulls the batteries out of both their phones, and then rolls down his window and smashes them hard into the ground. He starts the car, backs up, and then drives over the broken phones for good measure. Then he pulls out of the parking lot, and they’re off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	11. Chapter 11

Bilbo glances nervously between Thorin, Dwalin, and his uncle. Gandalf’s face is twisted in annoyance, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. In contrast, Dwalin’s arms are folded rather menacingly across his. The two of them are seated in the back of the car; Bilbo and Thorin are up front. The rest of the company and the four drivers from Eagle Branch are waiting impatiently outside.

Thorin sighs again, and scrubs a hand over his face. “One more time, from the top,” he says.

Gandalf sniffs. “As I’ve said,” he grumbles, “I was at your sister’s house when Radagast finally texted me. He gave me an address and told me to meet him there, so I went. Yeah, I thought it was a little weird that he wanted me to meet him at some creepy warehouse, but he’s just like that sometimes. So I went inside to the second room like he’d told me to, and there was a box on a table with a note that said ‘open me,’ so I did. And that’s when all that smoke came billowing out of the box, and it scared the piss outta me, so I ran. And that’s when I found you lot.”

Dwalin looks at Thorin imploringly. “He’s told us the same story three times,” he says gently. “I believe him.”

Thorin sighs. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he mutters.

“Yes, while I agree the whole thing’s oftly convenient,” Bilbo offers, “it shouldn’t matter. We escaped - that’s all that’s important.”

“Look,” Gandalf says after several seconds of charged silence. “ I have a new plan. Right now, we need somewhere to go; it’s not safe to go back to Dís’ house. I’ve got a friend who we can stay with for a few days. He runs a... B&B, of sorts, here in town, and I know for a fact he doesn’t have anyone booked in right now - we can check in under a few false names. It’s a perfectly good cover story; that’s kind of his specialty, actually. Why don’t we all go there and sleep for a couple of hours? God knows we could all use it.”

“Is this _friend_ anything like Elrond?” Thorin grumbles.

“Beorn’s the best bet we have right now,” Gandalf assures them. “It’s perfectly safe. And if something goes wrong, you can blame it on me.”

“What choice do we have?” Thorin mutters after a few seconds. He looks at Gandalf for a long moment before saying, “Okay - we’ll go.” He opens the car door and steps out; the other three follow suit.

“You know,” Bilbo says to his uncle as they get out of the car, “you’re sounding a lot more lucid these days. And a bit more grumpy, too, if I might add.”

Gandalf scowls at him. “I haven’t smoked in three days and I’m dying,” he snaps, then stomps off after Thorin. Bilbo can’t help but crack the smallest of smiles.

The company quickly regroup and go over the new plan. Gandalf gives directions to the drivers, and they load back into the cars for one more trip. Thorin rather unsubtly places Bilbo in the middle seat in the back of one of the cars, and slides into the seat to Bilbo’s right; Fíli takes the seat to his left, and Kíli clambers into the front seat. As the car begins to drive, Bilbo leans into Thorin, resting his head on his shoulder, and sliding a hand onto his leg. He knows it’s silly to be scared that he’s going to be left alone again, but right now, he just wants the reassurance of Thorin’s touch to let him know that he’s safe. Thorin seems to sense this, and he wraps an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, and presses a gentle kiss into his curls.

Someone coughs.

Bilbo looks up to see Fíli staring at him with an absolute shit-eating grin on his face. “So it’s official then?” he asks, pointedly eyeing Bilbo and his uncle.

“About fucking time!” Kíli whoops from the front seat. Bilbo looks at him to see a grin identical to his brother’s spread over his face as well.

“That took ages longer than we thought it would,” Fíli laughs.

Bilbo blanches. “You knew?” he asks weakly, his eyes darting back and forth between the boys. He looks up at Thorin, whose face is slightly flushed; he looks as if he’s currently fighting to hold back some very unkind words at the moment. Bilbo chuckles slightly at the sight.

“We’ve known for weeks,” Kíli says. “All those long stares any time you leave a room. All those _Yes, Bilbo, I’ll do anything you want, Bilbo, just please fuck me_ moments.” Here, Thorin lets out an audible growl, which serves to wipe the grin from Kíli’s face. “It’s all about reading the subtext, of course,” he adds quickly.

“He likes to check your ass out when you’re not looking,” Fíli supplies rather bluntly.

Thorin is beet red now, rubbing his temples, and very pointedly not looking at his nephews. “I’m going to kill both of you,” he says slowly.

The boys chuckle, contented for now, and both turn to stare out of their respective windows, leaving Thorin and Bilbo alone for the time being. Bilbo watches the sun rise as they go, and he suddenly feels incredibly tired; all of these adrenaline rushes cannot possibly be good for his system.

When they finally arrive at their destination, Thorin bolts from the car. Before Bilbo can follow, he’s stopped by Fíli placing a hand on his shoulder. “He was an absolute wreck, earlier tonight,” he says quietly so that only Bilbo can hear. “When you got ripped out of the car, I mean. He kept screaming that we had to turn around, but we couldn’t stop, not when the jeep was still onto us.”

Fíli looks so apologetic that it causes a lump to form in Bilbo throat. He swallows thickly. “I understand,” he says heavily. No one had intended to leave him behind on purpose. But if it was a question of ensuring the safety of three or the safety of one - well, the greater number was always going to win out, Bilbo supposed.

“As soon as we shook our tail and met up with the other cars, he ripped the driver right out of the car and took off after you,” Fíli continues. “He was gone for ages - we were so worried that he’d run into Murray’s men again. But then he came back with you, and I’ve never been so relieved in my life, because…” He pauses, and then a cheeky grin spreads onto his face. “Well, ‘Uncle Bilbo’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Bilbo feels his face grow hot, and he rolls his eyes. “It’s a little early for _that_ ,” he chides as he and Fíli follow Thorin and Kíli out of the car and up the driveway towards a house. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo catches the four cars speeding off; he has a sinking feeling that they won’t be seeing their mysterious rescuers again.

The house in question sits at the end of a long gravel driveway, set back in a small grove of trees. They’re on the edge of the city proper now, tucked in away in a quiet, little neighborhood. The house looks old; nineteenth century, if Bilbo had to guess. It’s white, and its trim, shutters, and front porch are painted lilac. Two rainbow flags frame the front door, and there’s a sign that stands next to the front porch steps that reads: “Queer Lodgings.” Bilbo has to stifle a chuckle; of course Gandalf would think to bring them here.

Speaking of which, it’s Gandalf who’s leading the way up the front porch steps and into the house, Thorin right behind him; Bilbo jogs to catch up. Upon entering, they’re met by a tall, slim man with shaggy brown hair, long sideburns, and a small, curled mustache that looks as if it belongs back in the early part of the twentieth century. There’s a pair of ridiculously oversized glasses on his face, and he has a thin, blue scarf wrapped around his neck which artfully drapes over a tight-fitting t-shirt. His left arm is covered in a full sleeve of tattoos, which look as if they’re all different kinds of bears. He’s stood behind the front counter, lazily swiping through something on an iPAD. He glances up when they enter, and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it.

“Gandalf,” he says coolly. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” He cocks an eyebrow at the rest of the company as they enter the front room, but says nothing else.

“Well, been busy,” Gandalf says with what Bilbo thinks is an almost nervous laugh. “Hey, listen - we could really do with a big favor from you right now.”

The man, who Bilbo assumes must be Beorn, eyes them warily. “Go on.”

“We need somewhere to lay low for a day or two, and I thought that you’d be the perfect person to help us,” Gandalf says. “I looked at your website, and all of your rooms are currently open, are they not?”

Beorn frowns. “You in trouble again?” he asks.

“Just a smidge.”

A beat goes by before Beorn says, “You going to pay me this time?”

Gandalf looks over to Thorin, wordlessly signaling for help. Thorin sighs. “Yes,” he says, somewhat reluctantly.

“There’s only ten beds upstairs,” Beorn says, reaching behind him towards a pegboard where several room keys are hanging. “Some of you will have to share.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Gandalf says quickly. “We’re used to bunking in tight quarters these days.”

At this, Beorn raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. “I’ll put breakfast on, shall I?” he asks once he’s distributed the room keys to the company.

“Actually, we’ve had a bit of a long night,” Gandalf says. "We might just sleep for a few hours first. Lunch would be most appreciated later, though.”

The company troop upstairs and begin to disperse into the various rooms. After making sure that everyone else is settled first, Thorin gently takes Bilbo’s hand and leads him to the room at the end of the hall, next to the one Fíli and Kíli have taken. Bilbo barely manages to kick off his shoes and shuck his jacket before collapsing onto the bed. He’s so tired, and the bed is so comfortable and soft. His eyes begin to close.

“Not so fast,” Thorin says gently, pulling Bilbo back up into a sitting position. Bilbo grumbles and opens his eyes reluctantly as Thorin begins to tug at his shirt, indicating that he needs to take it off. “You’ll thank me later when you’re not sleeping on buttons,” he says with a small grin. Bilbo makes a gentle noise of protest, but does as he’s told. Thorin helps him to slide his jeans off, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt.

“Satisfied?” Bilbo grumbles as he rolls back onto the bed and curls up on his side, not even bothering to slide under the covers; he would sleep on the floor right now if it just meant that he didn’t have to be awake anymore.

“Quite,” Thorin smirks. He shucks his own clothes off until he is in a similar state of undress, and then slide into bed next to Bilbo. “You’re hopeless,” he admonishes with a small laugh as he tugs the blankets out from underneath Bilbo before pulling the sheets over both of them. Bilbo makes a sleepy noise of acknowledgement as he feels Thorin’s arm wrap around his middle and pull him against his broad chest.

Logically, Bilbo knows that the sensation of being in a bed _with_ someone - not just bunking in because they have to - is quite foreign; it’s been longer than he’d care to admit since the last time he’d been in a relationship - he inhales sharply at the thought before he can stop himself. Is that what this is with Thorin - a relationship? Thorin catches the small sound that Bilbo makes, and holds him tighter because of it. Despite the newness of this situation, Bilbo can’t help but notice how _right_ it feels. He drifts off to sleep with what he thinks must be the world’s loopiest smile on his face at just how happy he is in this moment.

***

Bilbo wakes up to the sound of screaming in their room. And it takes him several seconds to realize that he is in fact the one who’s screaming. He clamps his mouth shut and throws himself back against the pillows. He can feel sweat covering just about every inch of his body, and his brain is racing through the frightening series of images that it’s just created in his sleep. _It’s just a nightmare_ , he tells himself; _it isn’t real_. But the thought does nothing to mitigate the fact that he’s trembling.

He quickly becomes aware that someone is gently stroking his arm. He turns his head to see Thorin looking at him, concern etched into his features. “It’s okay, you’re safe,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss into Bilbo’s temple.

Bilbo begins to feel some strange, sick sensation build up in his stomach, and he throws himself out of bed, and begins pacing about the room, sucking in deep lungfuls of air as he goes. His hands are shaking, and he’s sweating again.

Thorin sits bolt upright in concern. “What’s wrong?” Bilbo stops pacing momentarily to look at him. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is so dry and still raw from screaming that no words come out. Instead, tears begin to leak out of the corners of his eyes. Seeing this, Thorin disentangles himself from the sheets and bolts to Bilbo’s side, gathering him in his arms just as Bilbo breaks and the sobs begin to escape him. Thorin runs a hand soothingly over his curls as Bilbo’s frame shakes in his arms. “Shhh,” he says. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine. I’m here.”

Bilbo lets the sobs wrack through him until he has no more left. He looks up at Thorin, and reaches out to cup his face with both of his hands. He pulls him down and brings their foreheads together before kissing him gently. “It was just a nightmare,” Bilbo whispers against his lips. “I’ll be fine.”

Thorin looks at him with a sadness that almost makes Bilbo start to cry again. “This is all my fault,” Thorin whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Bilbo has to laugh. “You give yourself too much credit, Thorin,” he chides. “I suspect this nonsense has much deeper roots, but I won’t bore you with that - not now, anyway.” A smile flits across Thorin’s face at these words, and Bilbo feels a weight lift slightly from his chest. “Being pulled out of that car and finding myself completely alone in the dark certainly didn’t help things,” Bilbo plows on. He bites his lower lip as he pauses to think for a moment. “You know, I made it through that mess with the Troll Triplets, and then the Wargs, and then Murray okay. Well, as okay as I could have been, given the circumstances. But the point is that we - you, me, the boys, the company - we all made it through that _together_. But when I was alone in that construction complex, running for my life from someone who clearly wanted to kill me - god, Thorin… I thought I was done for; I really thought that I was going to die alone. And that absolutely fucking terrified me.”

Thorin looks as if he’s about to crumple. He leans down and plants an impossibly tender kiss on Bilbo’s lips. “I promise that I will never let that happen, Bilbo,” he whispers.

At those words, something ignites inside of Bilbo, and he’s suddenly overwhelmed by how much he _wants_ Thorin. He leans up and kisses him hard and hungrily, causing Thorin to stumble back a step in surprise. He adjusts quickly, though, and begins to return Bilbo’s passion. Bilbo spins them and begins to walk backwards towards the bed, dragging Thorin with him. When he feels the bed frame against the back of his legs, he falls gently down onto the mattress; Thorin tumbles down after him.

***

“Have a nice nap?”

Bilbo looks across the table to where Kíli is staring at him over a fried egg sandwich. The question, though phrased innocently enough, carries a tone of accusation that makes Bilbo slightly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I suppose,” he says uneasily. To this, Kíli makes a noise which Bilbo can only describe as a sarcastic sniff.

Fíli leans across the table, staring hard at his uncle. “Just so you know,” he says flatly, “those walls are not soundproof.”

Bilbo and Thorin each turn a startling shade of red. Before anyone can say another word, Beorn appears and sits down at the table with them. He looks at Gandalf, who’s sitting to Fíli’s left.

“So, what is it this time, Gandalf?” he asks casually. “Drugs again?”

Gandalf crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “I’ll have you know it’s not actually my mess this time,” he huffs. “It’s Thorin’s. And to be honest, I’m not entirely sure how into this whole plan I am anymore.”

Bilbo nearly spits out the sip of water he’s just taken. “What do you mean you’re not sure how _into_ this you are?” he hisses. “You’re the one with a goddamn body count in all this!”

Beorn lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?” he says.

“It’s pretty bad,” Kíli says through a mouthful of sandwich.

Beorn turns his attention to the boys. “You’re pretty young to be in this business,” he says, eyeing up both of them.

“His fault,” Fíli says, jabbing a finger in Thorin’s direction. Thorin groans, and sinks his head onto the table, folding his arms to cover his face.

“So you’re the mastermind here, eh?” Beorn chuckles.

“It’s a long story,” Thorin says, his voice muffled by his arms. Bilbo reaches out a hand and begins to gently rub it across Thorin’s back.

“I like stories,” Beorn says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms over his head. “Why don’t you tell me everything, from the beginning? I need to know what’s going on if I’m going to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	12. Chapter 12

Bilbo is beginning to wonder if the world isn’t just full of criminals all hiding in plain sight.

After listening to Thorin’s tale of their adventure thus far, Beorn had kindly filled them in about his own operations here in the city. Gandalf had been right, in a sense, when he’d described Beorn’s business as a B&B. He ran what was essentially a hostel for criminals in need of a place to rest and an alibi - for a price, of course. Sort of akin to what Oín did with his underground medical practice, Bilbo thought. He had seven rooms on the second floor of the house for guests, who also had access to the kitchen, dining room, and living room; there was a small addition to the side of the house that Beorn used as his personal apartment. Out back, he had a series of beehives that he tended to, collecting his own honey and selling it at the local farmers’ market on Sundays (this Sunday, of course, being the exception due to the large influx of visitors that he’s just received). There was nothing criminal about this part, though - he just enjoyed the bees. When the criminal sheltering business was slow (there apparently was an off season, Bilbo had been surprised to find out - the more you know, I guess) he spent his time volunteering at an animal shelter down the street (oh, the irony). He had two rescue greyhounds who lived with him here at Queer Lodgings named Grasper and Keeper, who followed him around wherever he went.

They’re both sleeping under the kitchen table just now. Beorn smooths out a map of the city onto its flat surface. “We’re here,” he says, pointing to a mostly green area of the map on the outskirts of the city proper. “And you need to be here.” He drags a finger across town and it stops in the middle of the financial district. “Arkenstone Enterprises. On Erebor road, correct?” He looks at Thorin, who nods. Beorn lets out a low breath. “That’s a long way to go, my friend. And you’re probably going to be watched.”

“You’re most definitely being watched.”

Bilbo whips around and is shocked to see Radagast leaning on the door frame to the kitchen.

“I let myself in - hope you don’t mind,” he says casually, inclining his head towards Beorn.

Before Bilbo knows what’s happening, Thorin has crossed the distance to Radagast in three quick strides and has him pinned painfully against the wall, his hand closing around the other man’s throat.

“Thorin!” Bilbo and Gandalf yelp at the same time.

Thorin glances over his shoulder, his face livid. “Bofur, get the boys out of here,” he barks. “I don’t want them to see this.”

Bofur, who apparently doesn’t need telling twice, hauls Fíli and Kíli up from their chairs by the backs of their shirts and drags them from the room; Glóin and Nori, who had also been milling about, scamper out after them.

Bilbo darts over to Thorin, and places a hand gently on the arm that has a hold of Radagast. “Thorin, let him go,” Bilbo says quietly. Thorin seems to consider his options for a moment, and then caves to Bilbo’s request, just as Radagast’s face is beginning to turn an interesting shade of purple. He stumbles away from Thorin, coughing, and throws himself into the chair recently vacated by Fíli.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Thorin growls, folding his arms across his chest and glaring daggers at Radagast.

“I’ve had shit to do,” Radagast snaps. “Like saving your life, for instance.” He stares hard at Thorin.

After several long, tense moments, Thorin speaks again. “Well, go on,” he prompts. “Start talking before I start throwing punches.”

Radagast harrumphs. “Would a simple ‘thank you’ kill you, Thorin?” Thorin scowls but says nothing. Eventually accepting defeat on this item, Radagast continues. “At any rate, _you’re welcome_ for the call I put into my friends to pick you lot up from that warehouse. And you’re welcome for moving your sister to a safe location.”

“What have you done with Dís?” Thorin snaps.

“ _She’s safe_ ,” Radagast placates. “And that’s all you need to know for now. By the way, I got all of your things out of her house for you since it’s not safe to go back there. And I’m not even going to ask where you got that cell signal scanning equipment from. That’s not even - well, never mind. It’s all in the trunk of my car.”

“How did you find us?” Thorin asks.

Radagast waves him off. “That’s not important,” he says. “But what _is_ important is that if I could find you, other people certainly might be able to as well.”

Thorin rounds on Gandalf. “I thought you said this place was safe,” he says accusingly.

“It is,” Beorn cuts in defensively, his tone sharp.

“Beorn’s right,” Radagast says. “He knows how to take care of his own. But you have pissed off some very powerful people, Thorin. You’re going to need a little bit of extra protection if you want this plan of yours to succeed. And I know just where you can get it.”

Thorin stares at him for several long, painful seconds. Finally, he speaks. “Where?”

“At the farmers’ market, there’s a blue tent that’s run by two men who sell berries. I’ve forgotten what their real names are now, it’s been so long and quite frankly it’s not important. I need you to go to their tent and ask for three cartons of blueberries. When you do, they’ll hand you the blueberries, as well as a black box. Inside of that box is a motion sensor device. If you set it up at the end of the driveway here, it’ll be able to give you a small warning - just a minute or so - if any unwanted visitors might be approaching. It’s not much, but it could save your life.”

Thorin takes his time considering Radagast’s words. “How do you know this?” he finally asks.

“It’s not important.”

“Why can’t you go get it for us if you know so much about it?”

“Because I’m busy,” Radagast says with an exasperated sigh, “And anyway, they’ve been instructed to only give it to you or Bilbo - no one else.”

“How do they know who we are?” Bilbo pipes up. His blood has gone cold, and he begins to think back to Gollum, and how he had said that he knew Bilbo’s name. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the unpleasant memory. Thorin sees his discomfort and places a hand gently on his shoulder; Bilbo is glad for its reassuring warmth.

“I can vouch for them,” Beorn says. “They’re at the farmers’ market every week. They usually set up a few stalls down from me. Very pleasant; buy my honey sometimes.”

“Thorin, I’m just going to need you to trust me on this,” Radagast says imploringly. “Have I done anything to steer you wrong so far? Haven’t I done nothing but help you?”

Thorin deflates a little bit. “Fine,” he says, “we’ll do it your way.”

“Excellent,” Radagast says briskly. “Bilbo, be a good lad and help me get your things out of my car before Gandalf and I leave.”

“Where are you two off to?” Bilbo demands, looking between Radagast and his uncle.

“I need to get Gandalf out of here - I mean, _well_ out here for a little bit,” Radagast says. “He’s got three marks against him with the Troll Triplets. He’s only going to put your operation at even greater risk if he stays.”

“Four,” Bilbo corrects, shooting an annoyed glance at his uncle, who at least has the good grace to look somewhat apologetic. “He shot Murray too.”

“Christ - that was you too?” Radagast says, and Gandalf nods. “I knew Murray was dead, but… Jesus, Gandalf.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, the sooner we can get out of here, the better.”

***

After Radagast and Gandalf departed (they were headed for Beorn’s family farm, about an hour outside of the city, which was less of a farm and more of a small house attached to a lot of land these days), the company regrouped to discuss the plan. Following a brief argument about who should go to pick up the device - for, as dangerous as it was to go, no one wanted to be left behind - they had decided that everyone should go. Safety in numbers had been the prevailing argument put forward by Dwalin, and Bilbo couldn’t disagree with it.

Beorn was kind enough to lend them his van, which had his beekeeping company logo on the side of it - a legitimate cover if there ever was one. After a twenty minute or so drive, they arrived at the farmers’ market.

The market is in a long, flat, grassy field, bordered on two sides by trees. There’s several aisles of tents and stalls running through most of the space. People are selling everything from vegetables to flowers to essential oils. Gandalf would have loved it, Bilbo thinks idly as he takes in the sight. But the other part of his brain doesn’t see how charming and peaceful the scene is - no, it sees a wide open space where they would be very easily exposed. Bilbo shakes his head, chasing off the thought. God - he’s starting to sound like Thorin.

“Here we go,” Thorin mutters to Bilbo as they approach the tent, which is exactly where Beorn had described it to be. The rest of the company are milling about, trying to blend in with the crowd, but all their eyes are focused on the tent and the pair that’s approaching it.

When they reach the tent, the two men sitting in camp chairs behind a rickety table that’s laden with a variety of berries nod at them in greeting.

“We’ll take three cartons of blueberries, please,” Thorin says calmly, but Bilbo can feel Thorin’s hand trembling slightly in his. He squeezes it gently, a gesture which Thorin returns a moment later.

“I’ll get you some fresh ones,” one of the men says. He stands and rummages about behind them. When he turns around, he has three cartons balanced on top of a black box. Bilbo’s heart is in his throat. It feels like they’re part of some secret spy drop. “Would you like a bag?” the man asks, and Thorin nods. The other man grabs a burlap tote from under the table, and they pack the box and the berries into it before handing it over to Thorin.

But the moment the bag passes into Thorin’s hand, a great deal of shouting erupts from several rows behind them. “Police! Nobody move!”

“Shit!” Thorin curses. He yanks Bilbo away from the tent, and the pair take off at a run. People are screaming, and chaos is developing all around them. Bilbo catches glimpses of other members of the company as they run by, all trying to duck into cover. Something has gone terribly wrong.

“Everyone stay calm!” someone shouts. “There are criminal suspects about - we don’t know if they’re armed!”

“Thorin Oakenshield, come out with your hands up!” another voice shouts.

Bilbo blanches. He’s seeing stars and he’s about to be sick. Thorin suddenly throws them onto the ground behind a few crates next to an abandoned stall. “We’re fucked,” Bilbo whispers weakly.

“Someone knew we’d be here,” Thorin growls. “This is a set up.”

“We’re fucked, Thorin,” Bilbo repeats. He glances up when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and sees Fíli and Kíli crouched down under a table in a tent across from them. They’re gesturing for Thorin and Bilbo to come over to them. But just as Bilbo moves to stand up, a police officer comes tearing down the aisle between them; his stomach tightens uncomfortably as he sees a gun clutched in one of the man’s hands. And then as quickly as he came, he’s gone; it’s a miracle none of them were seen. “We’re fucked,” Bilbo mutters; it’s all he can think to say right now.

Thorin looks at him sharply. “Maybe not all of us,” he says slowly, and Bilbo doesn’t like his tone.

“Thorin, what -?”

Thorin shoves the burlap tote at him. “Take this and take the boys and get out of here,” he says.

“Thorin - ”

“Do not argue with me, Bilbo,” he says. “I’m being set up here. It’s me they want, and probably most of the company as well. But I doubt you’re on their radar the same way as the rest of us are.” He reaches out and cups Bilbo’s face in his hands. “You have to do this for me,” he says quietly. “They can’t take the boys. Please.” Bilbo’s eyes are beginning to sting with unshed tears, and a painful lump has formed in his throat. He swallows thickly, and nods. Thorin leans in and kisses him hard and fast. “I love you,” he breathes against Bilbo’s lips, and then he shoves him roughly towards Fíli and Kíli. “Go!” he shouts.

Bilbo doesn’t even have time to be surprised at Thorin’s last words as he stumbles across the grassy aisle and dives under the table with the boys, just as Thorin springs up and begins to run in the opposite direction. “Come and get me, you motherfuckers!” he shouts as he goes.

“What is he doing?” Fíli says, his mouth falling open in surprise.

“He thinks he’s being heroic,” Bilbo groans. “Now come on - we have to get out of here.”

“We’re not leaving without uncle,” Kíli snaps. He makes to follow Thorin, but Bilbo grabs the back of his shirt to stop him. He then tucks the burlap tote under one arm, and grabs the back of Fíli’s shirt with the other hand for good measure.

“We have to go,” Bilbo hisses. “We’ll be no help to him if we’re all arrested.”

The boys consider this for a moment, and then nod in unison. Bilbo sticks his head out of the back of the tent and makes sure that the coast is clear before the three of them take off at a run towards the parking lot where they’d left the van. They can hear the police shouting as they go, and it sounds to Bilbo as if the rest of the company has not fared so well in their attempted escape. Fíli fumbles badly with the keys once they reach the van, but they manage to clamber inside once the doors are unlocked. They peel out of the parking lot without a backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	13. Chapter 13

Beorn yelps as Fíli slams him hard up against the wall and pins him there with an arm pressed firmly against his collarbone. “You traitorous bastard!” Kíli bellows. He winds up for a punch, but Bilbo lunges forward and catches his arm.

“Enough!” Bilbo grunts through the effort of wrestling Kíli into submission. “This is not how we do this.”

Kíli throws Bilbo roughly off of him and shoots him a seething look before straightening his shirt with a good flare of annoyance. He turns his attention back to Beorn, pacing back and forth in front of him. “How much?” he hisses through gritted teeth. “How much did they buy you for?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Beorn says. This causes Fíli to slide his arm upwards and press it hard against Beorn’s throat.

“Fíli!” Bilbo barks in warning. Fíli glares at Bilbo over his shoulder, then slowly lowers his arm back down so that Beorn can breathe properly again. God - both the boys are acting so much like Thorin right now it’s almost scary.

“Where’s everyone else?” Beorn asks. “What happened?”

“Shouldn’t you be telling us?” Kíli growls.

“Look, I really don’t what the fuck’s going on,” Beorn says. He looks imploringly at Bilbo, who sighs in exasperation.

“Fíli, let him go,” Bilbo says.

Reluctantly, Fíli lowers his arm, and then stomps from the room in anger. “Christ,” Beorn mutters, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. He runs a hand over his clavicle as he takes a deep breath. “What happened?” he says a few moments later, looking pointedly at Bilbo.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo says honestly as he blows out a breath and runs a hand through his curls in frustration. “It was some kind of set up, I think. We got there and did what Radagast told us to do. We got the box, but as soon as we had it, the police were everywhere. They knew that Thorin was there.”

“Fuck,” Beorn says quietly.

“It’s on the news!” Fíli shouts from the other room. Bilbo, Kíli, and Beorn all scramble into the living room, where Fíli is stood in front of the television.

A newscaster is speaking. “This morning, the Mirkwood Farmers’ Market was raided by the police after they received an anonymous tip off that a gang of criminals, led by a man named Thorin Oakenshield, were in the area. The gang, known as ‘The Dirty Bakers’ Dozen,’ are wanted for their association with a variety of crimes, including an illegal gambling ring being run out of a pub, the sale of several illicit substances, and the theft of a priceless necklace, called ‘The White Gems of Lasgalen,’ which had been previously housed in the offices of Arkenstone Enterprises, a business which Oakenshield’s family has some former connection with. The theft of the necklace is likely motivated by revenge, according to Gordon Smaug, the current CEO of Arkenstone Enterprises; as of yet, it has not been recovered. The police have thus far declined to comment on the raid, other than to say that all eleven suspects who were present at the scene were apprehended and taken to the City Center Custody Station, where they will be held until their arraignments tomorrow afternoon.”

“Jesus fuck,” Bilbo says quietly, sinking down onto the couch as his legs give out from under him. He brings a shaking hand up to his mouth and tries his best to stifle a dry sob.

“You _were_ set up,” Beorn says. He looks over at the boys, who are both stood stock-still, white as sheets. “I promise you I had nothing to do with this.”

Fíli nods, but says nothing. “What are we supposed to do?” Kíli asks quietly. He looks at Bilbo, his eyes bright, bottom lip trembling.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo croaks out around the lump that’s formed in his throat.

“God damnit, Bilbo!” Kíli shouts, suddenly angry again. “Think of something! That’s what we brought you here for, isn’t it? You’re supposed to know what to do if things goes south. You have to think of _something_! You have to - ” He cuts himself off with a ragged sob, the tears leaking out of his eyes now. Fíli reaches out to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, but Kíli shoves him away roughly, causing him to stumble backwards into Beorn. He storms from the room.

“Where are you going?” Beorn calls after him.

“To go put this fucking sensor thing together!” Kíli shouts from the other room. “I have to _do something_! And this bullshit better save someone’s fucking life if it was worth losing Thorin over!” Bilbo hears the front door slam, and then the sound of Kíli’s stomping footsteps disappear down the driveway.

Fíli makes to follow his brother outside, but Bilbo reaches out a hand and grabs his arm, stopping his progress. “Let him go,” Bilbo says. Fíli considers this a moment, and then sinks down onto the couch next to Bilbo. Bilbo scrubs a hand over his face anxiously and takes a deep breath.

“He’ll calm down in a bit,” Fíli says, somewhat apologetically.

“Don’t worry about him,” Bilbo dismisses. “I understand why he’s angry. I’m angry too. And I’m scared.” He looks up at Fíli, who meets his gaze with clear, blue eyes. The same eyes as Thorin’s, Bilbo thinks. “God, what a mess we’re in,” he says.

Fíli sags into Bilbo, leaning his head onto his shoulder; Bilbo wraps a comforting arm around him. “How did Smaug find us?” Fíli whispers. “I thought we were being careful.”

“So did I,” Bilbo sighs.

“I can make some calls, see if anyone knows anything,” Beorn offers.

Bilbo looks up at him and nods. “Just do it quietly,” he says. “The less ripples we can cause right now the better.”

Fíli and Bilbo sit in silence for several minutes, each lost deep in their own thoughts. “I should go check on Kíli,” Bilbo murmurs after a while.

He pushes himself heavily off of the couch and makes his way outside. He finds Kíli seated cross-legged in the grass next to the end of the long driveway. He has a black rectangular device clutched in his hands, and Bilbo can just make out two smaller black objects, expertly hidden in the grass on either side of the gravel drive.

“It’s up and running,” Kíli says quietly, not bothering to look up at Bilbo. His attention is focused on the device in his hands; he’s slowly adjusting a dial, which is changing some sort of readout on its small screen. “It’ll tell us if someone’s trying to get onto the property.”

Bilbo takes a seat next to him. “You’re pretty good with this kind of stuff, aren’t you, Kí?” he says. Kíli grunts in acknowledgement of the comment, but says nothing. “You know, Nori found us some kind of cell phone scanning equipment; it’s in the house if you wanna play around with it. I’m not quite sure how it could help us, but it might be worth taking a look at.”

Kíli nods, and begins to fiddle with the grass next to his foot. Bilbo’s not sure what else to say, so he stays quiet; Kíli will speak when he’s ready, Bilbo thinks. And after a few minutes, Kíli does. “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier,” he says quietly. “I’m just…”

“Angry,” Bilbo finishes for him; Kíli nods.

“It’s just… all wrong, you know?” Kíli continues. “We knew this was going to be dangerous when we started, but I didn’t think it would be this bad. And I never imagined having to do any of it without Thorin. He’s been there for me my whole life, always ready to help me whenever I was in trouble. And I was in trouble a lot as a kid.” He chuffs out a laugh, which makes Bilbo smile. “It just feels so wrong that I couldn’t help him when he needed it today.”

“Well, we’re just going to have to figure out how to help him from here,” Bilbo says. “You and me and Fíli. We’ll get Thorin and the rest of the company out of this mess.” Bilbo stands, and offers a hand to Kíli. He pulls him to his feet too before he starts to head back towards the house.

“Bilbo?” Kíli says quietly. Bilbo stops and turns to look at him. “I hope - ” he says, then pauses to clear his throat before starting again. “When all this is over - however it ends… I hope that you stay.” Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. “Look, I know it’s really soon,” Kíli plows on, “and you and Thorin might just be sleeping together or whatever - it’s not my business. But you’ve been really good for him, and Fí and I really like you. So… just think about it, okay?” He smiles weakly at Bilbo.

Bilbo bites his bottom lip and nods, suddenly overcome with emotion at just how much Kíli and his brother have come to mean to him. “Come on, let’s go back inside and get to work,” he says. Kíli jogs up to where Bilbo is standing, and Bilbo wraps an arm around the young man’s shoulder as they head back towards the house.

***

“Anything?” Fíli says.

Several hours have passed, and just as Bilbo had predicted, Kíli had gotten the cell phone scanning device up and running in no time. He’d spent the better part of the last few hours sitting at the kitchen table, scanning through the frequencies it was picking up, which were being read out in snippets of transcripts onto a small laptop.

“Nah,” Kíli says, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. “I don’t even really know what I should be looking for - just _something_ , I guess.” He shrugs.

“How does this thing work, exactly?” Beorn asks as he tops off Kíli’s glass of whiskey that he’s been nursing; Kíli nods in thanks.

“I’m hooked into a satellite that monitors civilian cell phone calls.”

“Civilian?” Beorn says, raising his eyebrows. “This is starting to sound like some spy shit to me.”

Kíli laughs. “‘Civilian’ was the only option it gave me on the search screen,” he says. “I’m pretty sure this thing is supposed to be used by the military or the CIA or some shit - which begs the question of just how did Nori get a hold of it?”

Beorn shakes his head. “Gandalf told me you guys were just small time criminals.”

“We are,” Bilbo cuts in defensively. Oh, good lord - did he really just get titchy about what _kind_ of criminal he is?

“Anyway,” Kíli continues, “I’ve been using the satellite to scan through the cell phone calls that are happening within a half mile radius of the City Center Custody Station. I figure the more we can find out about what’s going on in there, the better. Unfortunately, there’s been nothing of interest so far.”

“Well, we’ll just have to keep looking,” Fíli says firmly. “Something has to turn up eventually, right?”

***

Detective Inspector Thranduil Greenleaf sighs and rubs his temples in an attempt to quell the headache that he can feel coming on. It’s been a long day already. A productive one, though - the capture of eleven small time criminals was nothing to grumble about. And an anonymous tip off had been right, for once; that was no small victory either.

What bothered him, though, was the number: eleven. That meant that two of the Dirty Bakers’ Dozen were still out there somewhere. Whether they had just not been present at the scene or they had escaped, it was unclear. And with their ‘colleagues’ refusing to talk, he had no descriptions to go off of to warn his officers or the public about what they might look like so that they could be captured and brought in as well. Oh, well. There was one more ‘chat’ that he had to get through before he could really call the whole effort a failure.

The security lock buzzes. D.I. Greenleaf’s eyes snap over to the door as it opens. Thorin Oakenshield is led, handcuffed, into the room. He looks around and sniffs before he’s pushed down into the chair across the table from where D.I. Greenleaf is sitting. The escorting officer leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him. D.I. Greenleaf switches on the voice recording box that’s next to him, places his elbows on the table, and then rests his chin on his folded hands.

“Mr. Oakenshield,” D.I. Greenleaf drawls. “Nice to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard a lot about you - big fan of your work.”

“I can’t say likewise,” Oakenshield says. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Shame,” D.I. Greenleaf says dryly. “Now, I have a couple of questions that I’d like you to answer, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I wanna talk to my lawyer,” Oakenshield rumbles.

D.I. Greenleaf sighs, and gestures towards the desk phone that’s next to the voice recording box. “By all means, give him a call,” he says. “It’ll only slow this process down, and I’d _love_ to waste the rest of my day waiting around for him to get here.”

Oakenshield glares from across the table. “It’s oftly hard to call him when he’s in the cell next to me,” he says.

Oh, what D.I. Greenleaf wouldn’t give to wipe that smirk off of Oakenshield’s face right now. “Just answer my questions,” he growls.

“I don’t think so.”

“Talk to me about the White Gems of Lasgalen, then.”

“What of them?”

“Why’d you steal them?”

“I didn’t,” Oakenshield spits.

“I think you did,” D.I. Greenleaf returns.

“I’m being set up, you idiot,” Oakenshield barks. “I haven’t been back to Arkenstone Enterprises in almost twenty years. So how exactly was I supposed to have stolen gems from a place I haven’t been?”

“I have it from a reliable source - ”

“Who - Gordon Smaug?” Oakenshield laughs sarcastically. D.I. Greenleaf says nothing, and immediately regrets it as Oakenshield guesses correctly that his silence is in fact a confirmation. “Smaug is a pathological liar and a conman,” he sneers.

“And you’re a saint?” D.I. Greenleaf barks out in frustration. To his great annoyance, Oakenshield merely smirks at him.

“I never said what I was,” Oakenshield touts smugly. “And you should check Smaug’s office - the gems are probably in his goddamn desk.”

D.I. Greenleaf rolls his eyes. “Where are the other two?” he presses. “The ones we didn’t pick up today?”

“There are no other two,” Oakenshield says quickly - a little too quickly for it to be true, D.I. Greenleaf suspects.

“Look, it doesn’t take a genius to do the math,” D.I. Greenleaf says. “Eleven is not a dirty baker’s dozen - thirteen is. So where are they?”

“I’m not gonna answer any more of your questions,” Oakenshield huffs. He fixes his eyes to a point on the wall over D.I. Greenleaf’s left shoulder and stares.

D.I. Greenleaf sighs. “Fine, I’m done with you anyway,” he sniffs. He waves a hand towards the one-way mirror to his right, and a moment later the lock on the door clicks open and an officer arrives to take Oakenshield back to his holding cell. As soon as the door closes again, D.I. Greenleaf clicks off the voice recorder and sinks his head down onto the edge of the table. Jesus Christ, these guys were turning out to be a lot more trouble than they were probably worth.

***

The end of the day had not come soon enough for D.I. Greenleaf. He’d spent most of his afternoon filing paperwork related to this morning’s raid. And there was _a lot_ of paperwork that one needed to do when booking in eleven criminals.

He’s barely five feet outside of the station door when his cell phone rings. He’s almost tempted to not answer it.

“D.I. Greenleaf,” he says briskly as he accepts the call.

“Mr. Greenleaf, hi - Bard Bowman here,” the voice on the other end says.

Bowman - Bowman? D.I. Greenleaf racks his brain, not wanting to sound like a complete asshole as he tries to remember why on earth this guy would be calling him. He decides to play for time, hoping that the other man will say something to remind him of who he is.

“Bard - yeah, hi. How’ve you been?” he says.

“Good, good,” Bard says hurriedly. “Hey, look - I’m really sorry to call you on your cell. I’d tried the station number but they said you’d gone for the day, and then I explained why I was calling and the nice kid that I talked to gave me your number; Legolas, I think his name was. Very helpful.” D.I. Greenleaf rolls his eyes; he would have to find some kind of punishment for his idiot son tomorrow for giving out his personal information. “But anyway,” Bard continues, “I just wanted to call and get in touch to confirm that 11am is still a good time for me to come in and collect the donation boxes tomorrow?”

Ah, yes - that’s it. Bard was from the Lake-Town charity drive. Between the charity drive he’d help to organize at the station and the hauling in of the majority of the Dirty Baker’s Dozen this morning, D.I. Greenleaf was sure that he was on the fast track to the promotion to section chief now.

“Of course,” D.I. Greenleaf says. “Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. My officers have done an excellent job with the collections. We’ve got a lot of good stuff headed your way.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bard says warmly. “Will the car be fine, or should I bring the charity center’s van, do you think?”

“The van, I’d say,” D.I. Greenleaf guesses. “The boxes are quite big.”

“Right, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Have a good night,” Bard says.

“You as well,” D.I. Greenleaf says. He clicks his phone off.

***

“Hang on a minute…”

Bilbo snaps his head up to look at Kíli. No - he had most certainly _not_ been nodding off in his seat, thank you very much.

“What is it, Kí?” Fíli asks, stepping behind his brother to look at the laptop over his shoulder.

“There’s been a phone call between Thranduil Greenleaf and someone named Bard Bowman,” Kíli says slowly. “Greenleaf - I recognize that name from the news earlier, I think.”

“Detective Inspector Thranduil Greenleaf,” Beorn says, reading off the laptop that’s sitting in front of him on the kitchen table. “He’s the guy who organized the raid this morning.”

“What did they say?” Bilbo asks, leaning in closer to Kíli.

“Sorry for calling late, blah blah blah,” Kíli mutters, quickly scanning through the transcript that’s writing itself on the screen in front of him. “Oh, hang on. Bard says that he’ll be stopping by the station tomorrow morning to pick up some donation things.” He looks up at Bilbo, a spark of hope just visible in his eyes. “Do you think this is our ticket in?”

“What can we find out about this guy?” Fíli asks.

“Bard Bowman,” Beorn says. “Middle aged. Three kids. Possibly divorced. Involved with Lake-Town Charities. And, oh - this is interesting. He’s an IT specialist at Arkenstone Enterprises.”

Bilbo’s mouth gapes open. “How do you know all this?” he asks weakly.

“I’m on his Facebook,” Beorn says with a shrug. “You know, for a guy that works in IT, this was appallingly easy to find.”

“Where’s Lake-Town?” Bilbo asks.

“It’s a suburb,” Beorn says. “North of the city. And probably not a place that Smaug would ever think to look for you in.”

“Bard’ll be there at 11am tomorrow morning,” Kíli says.

Bilbo’s mind is racing in a million different directions at once. This was good - they could work with this. It wasn’t going to be easy, and they were going to need a lot of things to go their way tomorrow if they were going to make this work. But he thinks that they might just be able to pull this off.

“Strap in, boys,” he says. “We’ve got a long night of planning ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	14. Chapter 14

It’s 3am when Bilbo wakes to a rather unpleasant, high-pitched buzzing noise. He groggily wipes the sleep from his eyes and blinks as he tries to remember where is he. Ah, yes - he’d dragged a spare mattress onto the floor in Fíli and Kíli’s room because he hadn’t wanted to sleep alone tonight. Especially not in the bed where he and Thorin had - well, never mind it now, because _sleep_ was a thing that he was currently not getting, not with this racket going on.

“The fuck is that?” Fíli mumbles sleepily from the bed.

Kíli sits bolt upright. “The motion sensor!” he says. “Someone’s coming up the drive.” Indeed, Bilbo can see the small black device that Kíli had been fiddling with earlier flashing from where he had left it on the bedside table.

Bilbo’s stomach turns icy. It’s three o’clock in the morning - whoever’s here most certainly hasn’t come to do them any favors.

“Get dressed,” Bilbo orders, already hopping into his jeans. Once his shoes are on, he bounds out of the room and runs downstairs, only to find Beorn waiting for him, tying a patchwork bathrobe tight around his middle.

“I heard a noise,” Beorn says.

“It’s the motion sensor,” Bilbo says. “Something’s tripped it - I think someone’s here.”

Just then the boys arrive at the bottom of the stairs. “Shit,” Beorn swears. He looks hard at Bilbo. “The three of you have to go,” he says. “I guarantee whoever’s here has come on Smaug’s orders.” He dashes into the kitchen; Bilbo and the boys follow. “Here.” Beorn shoves the keys to the van at Bilbo. “I’ll hold them off - you get out of here.”

Bilbo has so many things that he wants to say to Beorn right now, so much gratitude for all the help he’s given them the past two days. But it’s all currently stuck in the back of his throat. All he can manage is, “Thank you,” as he reaches out and shakes Beorn’s hand firmly. Then he grabs the boys and the three of them take off through the back door in the kitchen.

Bilbo is silently thankful that Thorin’s paranoia had apparently been contagious, because he’d insisted on packing the van before they’d gone to bed with everything they might need, just in case they weren’t able to come back here. He starts the van and floors it around the house and down the driveway. As they fly past, he can see a black car pulled to a stop just in front of the house, and most of the lights on the first floor have been thrown on. There’s a good deal of yelling that they can hear from inside, and Grasper and Keeper are barking up a storm, but they can’t stop. Bilbo cuts a sharp right at the end of the driveway, and then they’re gone.

***

They take turns driving in shifts so that they might be able to catch a few more hours of sleep. Not that Bilbo can, really. This latest rush of adrenaline to his system has left him quite wrecked, but there’s nothing he can do for it now.

When the sun comes up, they stop to refill the gas tank. Kíli goes inside to pay for the gas, and when he comes back he’s also carrying a pre-packaged box of doughnuts and three shitty gas station coffees. Bilbo doesn’t mind; he’s just glad for the caffeine. They eat their breakfast in the gas station parking lot in silence.

By the time 9am rolls around, Fíli drives them to the closest Target, and parks at the back of the lot, away from any clear shot a security camera might get of them. “Right, then,” Bilbo says. “You both have your lists of what you need. We split up now, and meet back here in an hour. And then it’s go time.” The boys nod solemnly; the three of them exit the van.

***

D.I. Greenleaf doesn’t like when things go off-book. It’s 10:30am, a half an hour earlier than the arranged pick up time for the charity donations, and this was not Bard Bowman standing in front of him. The small man with honey brown curls and a slightly haughty expression on his face had introduced himself as Mr. Sackville, the marketing manager for Carrock Honey, a new partner working with Lake-Town Charities.

“Sorry if we seem a little unprepared,” D.I. Greenleaf says, trying his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “It’s just that Bard never mentioned that you and your crew would be here as well.” He glances over at the two young men stood behind Mr. Sackville, probably college students in need of something to do for the summer, if D.I. Greenleaf had to guess. One was a photographer, and the other had simply been introduced as ‘the intern.’

Mr. Sackville sniffs. “Bard is oftly forgetful,” he says. “Now, while we’re waiting on him to get here, do you think it would be possible for a tour of the station? We’re working on promoting Mr. Carrock’s involvement with Lake-Town Charities and this item drive in particular, and I would love to get some shots of the officers involved with this generous campaign. Of course, we’ll be more than happy to share any photos we take today - could be good promotional material for the work that’s done here in the station too, if you play your cards right.”

D.I. Greenleaf doesn’t think that he likes Mr. Sackville, but he can’t deny - the man has a point. He can almost smell the promotion now.

“Certainly,” he says, gesturing down the hallway. “If you’d follow me.”

Mr. Sackville looks at his two assistants. “Bungo, you snap some photos, and Otho, you… take notes, or something,” he says dryly. The three of them follow D.I. Greenleaf down the hallway.

“These are our offices,” D.I. Greenleaf says as they pass a series of rooms on their left. “And to your right you’ll see our sleeping quarters, available for any officer who needs a rest after a shift.” He can hear the sound of Bungo snapping away with his camera behind him as they go. At the end of the hallway, they pass through a heavy door. “And here we are in our holding cell area,” D.I. Greenleaf continues. “We’re almost at full capacity here, as you can see.” He gestures towards the Dirty Baker’s Dozen, who are spread out through several of the cells.

“Ah, yes - I heard about the raid yesterday. Congratulations,” Mr. Sackville says.

D.I. Greenleaf starts to feel a little odd as they walk by the holding cells. Usually any time he passed through here, the Dirty Baker’s Dozen would yell obscenities at him. But right now, they’re oddly quiet, staring at the three newcomers with wide eyes. It’s a little unnerving.

“Right, well - moving on,” D.I. Greenleaf says quickly, making to usher the marketing team back through the door they came from. He watches as Bungo steps quickly up to the cell where Thorin Oakenshield is stood and snaps a picture; D.I. Greenleaf swears he sees the flicker of a grin flash over Bungo’s face as he does. “I will have to ask you not to take pictures in here,” D.I. Greenleaf grumbles.

Bungo mutters a quick, “Sorry,” as he rushes past D.I. Greenleaf to catch up with Mr. Sackville.

“And now we’re in our control room,” D.I. Greenleaf says once they double back into the hallway and go through the other door. “To our right you’ll see our security station, where we monitor several surveillance camera feeds, both in and outside of the station. And, of course, over here are all of the donation items that we’ve collected.” He motions towards the seventeen large boxes lined up against the far wall.

He glances up at Mr. Sackville, who doesn’t seem remotely interested in the donation items; instead, he’s staring at his watch. In fact, his two associates seem just as disinterested as well. Bungo is looking back towards the holding cells, and Otho is staring at the monitors displaying the feed from the security cameras. D.I. Greenleaf feels a wave of annoyance swell in him. These three obviously don’t care about the charity work that’s been done here - they’re probably only interested in how they can spin this story for some good press.

“That’s all very good,” Mr. Sackville says without looking up. “It’s fine work you’ve done here”

“Thanks,” D.I. Greenleaf says, if only to be polite.

Mr. Sackville’s eyes suddenly snap up. “Right, well - how about a group photo, then? Where do you suggest, Bungo?”

“Outside should do,” Bungo says. “On the front steps. We can get the station in the background.”

“Right. Well, hop to,” Mr. Sackville says, motioning towards the front door. “If you’d just be so kind as to gather all of your officers, D.I. Greenleaf.”

“Well, I’ll certainly go see who’s up for it,” D.I. Greenleaf says.

“Not an option,” Mr. Sackville snaps impatiently. “When I say everyone, I mean _everyone_. This is going to the papers, you know. I want every smiling face involved with this campaign to be represented. We’ll send along all their names for the story’s publication, of course - just think of all the good that’s gonna do for the station. And besides, it’ll only take a minute of everyone’s time - not much of a price to pay for the reward it’s going to have.”

Mr. Sackville might be annoying, but he was making a compelling argument. D.I. Greenleaf sighs. “I’ll call everyone out front, then,” he says.

***

D.I. Greenleaf gets on the station’s intercom and makes a short announcement, asking all officers to meet out front for a group photo. Bilbo is sweating bullets as he listens; he can’t believe this is actually working.

Once all of the officers have filed past him and out the front door, he leans in close to Fíli, whispering just loud enough so that only he can hear. “Stall them for as long as you can.” Fíli nods, and head out the door. Once it closes behind him, Bilbo looks over to Kíli. “We have to find the cell keys - and fast,” he says.

Kíli immediately begins rifling through the desk drawers of the security station; Bilbo begins searching in the filing cabinets along the far wall. “Here!” Kíli says suddenly. He tosses Bilbo what looks to be a master key ring.

“Start emptying the boxes,” Bilbo orders as he dashes back into the hallway and then into the room with the holding cells.

Once inside, a great cheer erupts from the company. “Shut up!” Bilbo snaps. “They’re all outside right now - we only have a minute to get you out of here if this is going to work.”

Bilbo immediately runs over to Thorin’s cell, and starts trying keys in the lock. “Fancy seeing you here, Mister - ” Thorin glances down at Bilbo’s visitor name tag - “ _Sackville_.” He smirks, and Bilbo’s heart does a somersault in his chest.

On the fourth key, the lock opens. Thorin immediately pushes his cell door open and gathers Bilbo up in his arms and kisses him soundly. This elicits a good deal of whooping from the rest of the company. “I knew you’d figure something out,” Thorin whispers after he breaks the kiss.

“Hey - free us now, snog later!” Bofur shouts from the cell across from Thorin, a playful smile on his face. Bilbo feels his face flush hot, and he immediately begins opening the remaining cells.

“So, what’s the plan?” Dwalin asks.

“Follow me,” Bilbo says with a grin. He leads them out of the holding cells and back into the other room. Kíli has made quick work of combining the contents of the boxes so that eleven now stand empty, while six are packed nearly to the brim. “In there,” Bilbo says, gesturing towards the boxes.

“Are you insane? We’re in the goddamn security control room,” Dori hisses. “They’ll catch us.”

“No they won’t,” Bilbo says confidently, and he actually believes it. If they’ve made it this far, surely they were going to make it the rest of the way; he can feel it.

There’s a good deal of grumbling from the company, until Thorin steps in. “Do as he says,” he snaps, and much to Bilbo’s relief, they all begin to climb into the boxes. Thorin leans in and presses a soft kiss to his temple. “I trust you,” he whispers, before climbing into a box himself.

Bilbo pulls out a roll of packing tape from inside of his jacket. “I’m going to need all of you to be quiet,” he says as he begins to fold down the lid to Thorin’s box. “You might be in here for a while. But don’t worry - we have an exit plan.” He turns to look at Kíli, who’s already hopped behind the security desk and is frantically typing away at the computer. “You think you can erase the footage, Kí?” Bilbo asks.

“Of course I can,” Kíli snaps. “I’ll have it done in a jiffy.”

Suddenly, Bilbo hears the sound of a vehicle pulling up to the side door. He looks up to see a van with the words “Lake-Town Charities” printed on its side. “We don’t have a jiffy,” he yelps, and immediately begins to tape down the box lids faster.

Thirty seconds later, the door opens and a man with dark hair and a small mustache walks in. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled dress shirt and a nice pair of jeans, a pair of well-worn leather boots on his feet.

“Bard Bowman,” Bilbo says confidently, striding forward and extending his hand. “Mungo Sackville. So nice to meet you.” He and Bard shake hands, and Bilbo angles himself in just the right way in an attempt to stop Bard from seeing Kíli dash away from the computer.

“Um, hi,” Bard says, a bit awkwardly. “Uh, I was supposed to meet D.I. Greenleaf here? For the charity donations.”

“We’re actually here for the same thing,” Bilbo says quickly. “I’m the marketing manager for Carrock Honey - we’re a new partner to Lake-Town Charities.”

“I wasn’t aware we had another partner in this,” Bard says, confusion clearly evident in his eyes,

“We were a bit of a late entry into this project, I’m afraid,” Bilbo says. “But my people have called your people and everything’s sorted now.”

Bard seems satisfied enough with that answer. “Excellent,” he says, just as Kíli slips back over to Bilbo’s side.

“Bard, this is my intern, Otho,” Bilbo says, and the two shake hands. “My assistant, Bungo, is just outside taking some pictures of the officers involved with this campaign. While they’re out there doing that, I reckon we should start loading the boxes up into your van. They’re quite heavy - two of us should probably lift.”

Bard nods. “Right - good plan,” he says. He and Bilbo go to lift the first box - Nori, if Bilbo’s remembering correctly - while Kíli holds the door open for them. Thankfully, the box remains silent as it’s packed into the back of the van.

Bard and Bilbo nearly drop the third box. “Christ, what’s in this one?” Bard grunts. “Rocks?”

 _No, just Bombur_ , Bilbo thinks, and it takes a good deal of effort to stop a smile spreading across his face as they haul the box outside.

***

“Surely you’ve got it by now?” D.I. Greenleaf asks as Fíli snaps his fifteenth or so picture.

No, he hasn’t given them enough time yet, Fíli thinks. The company was bound to have wasted some time arguing with Bilbo about the escape plan, and Kíli was going to need a good minute or two to wipe the security camera footage. And he was sure that Thorin wouldn’t have gone anywhere without showing Bilbo some appreciation for the daring rescue, that sappy romantic. Fíli would make sure that Thorin had plenty of time for his moment - he’d done so much for Fíli in his life; Fíli could spare him an extra thirty seconds now.

“I am an artist - _let me work_!” Fíli snaps, adjusting the zoom on his camera lens. “We need to wait for this cloud to pass - I don’t like the light.”

He can hear D.I. Greenleaf groan, and he bites back a chuckle. Truth be told, he was enjoying this somewhat.

The cloud excuse buys him a minute, and he spends one more meticulously choosing his shots. Finally, he decides that he can’t reasonably stall them any longer. “Okay, got it!” he calls. “Thank you very much for your time, everyone.”

The officers begin to walk back up the steps towards the front door. Fíli swallows nervously. He just hopes he’s given everyone enough time. He steals himself, and then follows the officers inside.

***

“Well, that’s everything,” Bilbo says, slamming the back door to the van closed.

He hears the station door open, and looks up to see D.I. Greenleaf striding towards them, followed closely by Fíli. “Ah, you must be Bard,” D.I. Greenleaf says. “Nice to finally meet you in person.” They shake hands.

“I can’t thank you enough for all your efforts in this charity drive,” Bard says kindly. “Everything’s packed and good to go.”

Kíli leans in close to Bilbo as Bard and D.I. Greenleaf continue to talk, whispering just loud enough for only Bilbo to hear. “I’ve got the feed from the holding cells running on a loop, so it still looks like they’re in there,” he says. “But the moment someone actually goes into that room, we’re sunk. I’ve erased the footage of the actual escape, so they’ll never know it was you.”

“Right,” Bilbo murmurs. “We need to get out of here.”

Luckily, D.I. Greenleaf chooses that moment to say his goodbye and head back inside. “Hey listen, Bard,” Bilbo says quickly. “We’d love to get some shots of the donation goods actually in Lake-Town - maybe get a few of you as well, since you’ve put so much effort into this drive. Would you mind terribly if we bummed a ride off you to Lake-Town? It’s just that we Ubered here and it seems oftly silly to call another one if we’re all heading to the same place.”

“Of course,” Bard says. “That is, if two of you don’t mind riding in the back with the boxes; there’s only two seats up front.”

“Not a problem,” Fíli says cheerfully. He and his brother clamber into the back, while Bilbo hops in the front with Bard. As they pull away from the station, it takes all of Bilbo’s effort to bite back a smile. My god - they may have just gotten away with this harebrained scheme after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	15. Chapter 15

It’s a short drive to Lake-Town; a little too short, for Bilbo’s liking. He hasn’t quite come up with a complete plan about how he’s going to explain everything to Bard yet. But he’s been winging things for most of the past forty eight hours, so he might as well wing his way through this, too.

“I hope you don’t mind that we’re going to my house,” Bard says, a little apologetically. “We don’t have a lot of space in the Lake-Town Charities offices, so we store most things in my garage.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Bilbo says with a warm smile.

And soon enough they’re pulling into the driveway of Bard’s house. The neighborhood he lives in looks a bit run down, but not dilapidated; the same can be said for Bard’s house. It’s a small, two-story house with a garage attached to it. It’s been painted a sunny yellow color, but the paint is visibly peeling in some areas and desperately in need of a fresh coat. One of the rust colored shutters on the front window looks as if it’s barely hanging on, and the bushes by the gray stone front steps could do with a bit of a trimming.

Bard pulls the van into the garage and cuts the engine. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to close the door?” Bilbo asks. Bard sends him a funny look, but complies with the request, closing them in the garage with the click of a button on a remote on his key ring. Bilbo’s palms are sweating beyond belief, and he’s trying his best to steady his breathing. Bard hops out of the van; Bilbo follows.

Bard reaches for the back door of the van, but Bilbo stops him. “When you open the door,” he cuts in, “just…” He swallows nervously. “Well, just open it,” he finishes weakly.

Bard shoots him another strange look, and then pulls the door open. Where there had been seventeen boxes and two men when they left the station, there are now seventeen boxes and _thirteen_ men staring back at Bard. Bilbo watches all of the color drain from Bard’s face, and he throws out a hand to steady himself on the side of the van. His eyes flick back and forth between Bilbo and the inside of the van. Bilbo can almost read the thousand different thoughts that must be racing through Bard’s mind right now. Finally, he gathers himself enough to speak. “What the _hell_?” he says quietly.

“Bard, I have something to tell you,” Bilbo says gently. “My name isn’t Mungo Sackville - it’s Bilbo Baggins. And I’m not with Carrock Honey. And Fíli and Kíli here aren’t my assistants.” As if on cue, the boys grin from where they’re sitting in the van and wave innocently at Bard. “We’re so sorry we had to drag you into this, but we had no choice,” Bilbo says.

Bard’s eyes snap onto Thorin. “You’re Thorin Oakenshield,” he says slowly, and Thorin nods. “Is this about my father?” Bard asks weakly.

Thorin tilts his head quizzically at Bard. “Your father?” he asks.

“I saw the news,” Bard says. “The White Gems of Lasgalen theft - you’re going after Gordon Smaug, aren’t you?”

“That story was a fake,” Thorin says, a shadow crossing over his face.

Bard nods grimly. “Well, you’d better come in, then,” he says.

Bard turns abruptly and heads for the door on the left hand wall that leads into the house. Bilbo helps the company as they clamber out of the van, and then they follow him inside. Bilbo and Thorin exchange a look before they cross the threshold, and Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand gently in his as they step inside of Bard’s kitchen.

“Kids!” Bard calls out as he crosses the room. “We have some...visitors.”

There’s a small stampede of sound, and three people come whipping around the corner and skidding into view. The eldest girl and the boy look to be about Fíli and Kíli’s age, and the younger girl must be around eight or nine, if Bilbo had to guess. Bard sighs, and gestures towards his children. “These are Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda,” he says. “Kids, I’d like you to meet - ”

“Dad, why are the Dirty Baker’s Dozen in our kitchen?” Bain cuts across.

“Now, I don’t want you to panic,” Bard starts, but Bain cuts him off again.

“No, no, no - I think it’s cool,” he says quickly. He glances over to the company. “Fuck Smaug!” he says with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Bain,” Bard says, a bit of warning laced into his tone, “while yes, I agree - fuck Smaug - please watch your language in front of your sister.” The younger girl - Tilda - giggles.

Both Bilbo and Thorin’s mouths drop open in surprise. “Who is this guy?” Thorin whispers.

“He was just supposed to be a mule to get you guys out of there,” Bilbo admits. “He does work at Arkenstone Enterprises, though.” He looks sharply up at Thorin, and then says what they’re both thinking: “This could be good.”

“We need to talk,” Bard says, his mouth drawing into a thin, serious line. “Tilda, do me a favor and go pull all the curtains in the house - quickly.” Tilda darts from the room, apparently delighted at being asked to contribute. “Bain, switch everything on - I’d like some privacy for this.” Bain nods, and follows his sister from the room. “I have signal interfering devices,” Bard explains. “Never know who might be listening. We'll go in the basement, just to be safe, though.” He motions for the company to follow him through the house.

They go through a hallway and then down a set of stairs into the basement. The room is big, covered in faded red carpet. There’s a collection of old sofas and armchairs to their right, and an old, dusty wooden bar is built into the side of stairs on the opposite side. There’s what looks to be a makeshift stage set up on the far wall, which houses a keyboard and several microphones and guitar stands. Above it, a homemade banner is tacked to the wall; it reads: ‘The Bardlings.’ Fíli’s face immediately brightens when he sees this.

“Who’s the musician?” he asks.

“Me,” Sigrid says. “And Bain,” she adds, seemingly as an afterthought.

Bain scowls. “Hey, you need someone to do backup vocals for you once in a while,” he huffs.

Bard gestures towards the sofas. “Sit,” he says. The company arrange themselves across the offered seats and the floor; Dwalin chooses to stand menacingly behind where Thorin and Bilbo are sat, his arms folded across his chest and his gaze fixed steadily on Bard. “So,” Bard begins, “how did you find me?”

It takes Bilbo a moment to realize that the rest of the company are staring at him, waiting for him to speak. “You were a bit of a happy accident, really,” Bilbo admits.

“Hey, that’s what dad says I am,” Tilda pipes up cheerfully. Bard’s face turns an interesting shade of red, and the company burst out into laughter.

“We picked up a phone call between you and D.I. Greenleaf by chance,” Bilbo continues. “We did a quick Google search on you, found out all we needed to know, and took a gamble on the rest. I am sorry that we lied to you, but I couldn’t see another way of springing this lot out of there.”

Bard leans forward in his armchair, resting his elbows on his knees and tenting his fingers in front of him. “I don’t know how much I believe in fate,” he says slowly, “but I can’t help but think it was no accident that you’ve ended up here, of all places.”

“You mentioned something about your father earlier,” Thorin prompts. “Who was he?”

Bard sighs heavily. “Let me tell you a story,” he says. “My father, Girion, was a data archivist at Arkenstone Enterprises, back when your family owned it. He stayed on through the ownership ‘transfer’ - ” he spits out this word with a healthy dose of sarcasm - “even though he didn’t like it. But the money was decent, so he stayed. A few years later, he helped me get a job there in IT. And now Sigrid works there as well, as a sous chef in their kitchens.”

Sigrid nods here, a grimace clearly evident on her face.

“Three years ago,” Bard continues, “my father found… something that didn’t sit right with him. It was a series of corrupted files that he’d stumbled across while working on an archiving project. It looked as if someone had done a hasty job of trying to cover their tracks over something. We couldn’t access the full files, but it certainly looked as if someone was trying to delete a data trail concerning the transfer of a very large sum of money over several installments.”

Thorin inhales sharply next to Bilbo, and Bilbo squeezes his hand reassuringly. “What happened to the files?” Thorin asks.

Something crosses over Bard’s face just then, and he suddenly looks very somber and tired. “My father attempted to port the files over to a flash drive,” he says. “He wanted to take them to the police, because he was sure that he’d stumbled onto something illegal in the company’s history. The thing is - he never got there. We were told that it was a heart attack - very sudden, nothing we could have done. After we buried him, I went back to look for the files, but they’d been moved. A day later, I was called up to Smaug’s office and asked to install a signal jamming device on his personal computer, the kind that puts up a sophisticated firewall and blocks anyone from accessing files that are stored on that hard drive.”

Bilbo lets out a low breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“That’s why I thought you might have sought me out,” Bard says. “I thought maybe my father had tried to contact you before he was killed - because he _was_ killed; killed by Smaug - not a heart attack - because of what he’d found.”

“I’m so sorry,” Thorin says.

“You understand, though,” Bard says heavily. “I’ve read about your family, about what Smaug’s done to them, directly or indirectly. I’ve read about your grandfather and brother’s murders, and about your father’s suicide - ”

“Yes - ” Thorin cuts in sharply, stopping Bard from saying anything else. He’s gone rigid next to Bilbo. So that was it, the missing piece in Thorin’s story - the truth of what had happened to his father, and why this burden had fallen on his shoulders in the first place. Suddenly, Thorin made just a little bit more sense to Bilbo.

“If you knew about the files, why didn’t you go to the police, then?” Dwalin asks.

“Because without those files, I had no hard evidence,” Bard sighs. “And if they killed my father on the suspicion that he knew, what do you think they would’ve done to me if I’d come forward saying I’d seen then too? And who do you think they’d believe anyway when it came down to it: the incredibly powerful CEO of the company, or the IT manager who could easily be written off for acting out of grief over the loss of his father?”

For the first time since Bilbo’s known him, Dwalin looks remotely apologetic. “Fair enough,” he mumbles quietly.

“What’s it been like?” Thorin asks suddenly. “I mean, since Smaug took over?”

“Awful,” Bard says flatly. “It’s nothing like it was when your family had control. Smaug cares for one thing and one thing only: himself. As long as he’s making a handsome profit, he doesn’t care about anything else. He pays shit wages, and once you’re in, it’s almost impossible to get out. The only reason that Sigrid and I have stayed is that we’d never get another job in the city - Smaug would see to that. It’s not a company anymore - it’s a regime.”

Thorin looks crestfallen at Bard’s report. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“But you must have a plan, right?” Bard presses. “I mean, you wouldn’t have resurfaced now if you didn’t. You’ve found a way to strike back at Smaug, haven’t you?”

Thorin looks wholly unable to speak at the moment, so Bilbo steps in. “We might have something up our sleeve,” he admits. “It’s dangerous, though, and we wouldn’t want to put you or your family at any more risk than we may already have.” He glances over to Bard’s children as he speaks.

Bard shakes his head firmly. “I want to help,” he says.

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look, and then Thorin nods silently. “You said you work in IT?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Thorin looks at Bilbo again. “Do you have it?” he asks quietly, and Bilbo nods, reaching a hand into his front pocket. “I think you should show him.”

Bilbo withdraws the flash drive he’d found back at the construction complex and hands it over to Bard. “What is it?” he asks.

“We’re hoping you might be able to tell us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their kind reviews - so glad everyone's been enjoying the ride so far! 
> 
> Also, we're about to enter into the territory known as "we're starting to get into some technical IT stuff, of which my knowledge can be described as 'TV show IT where characters just say technical jargon and everything works perfectly all the time'" so just bear with me on this. (My own personal IT experience extends to being able to fix the drink ticket printer at work and that's about it.)

Bilbo feels as if he’s about to be sick. Under no circumstance should he have made it out of that constriction complex alive with what was on this flash drive.

Everyone had taken a break after Bard’s story; the company sat and talked quietly together, processing through the new information that Bard had just provided them with, and Bard and his children took a bit to regroup and prepare for the fact that they now had fourteen house guests that they were going to be saddled with for a few days, at least.

Sigrid and Bombur had worked together to prepare dinner (“My goodness, she is talented,” Bombur had said quietly to Bilbo, a look of pride and admiration on his face. “No wonder Smaug has her cook for him.”) while Bain had taken Fíli and Kíli back to where they had stashed Beorn’s van in order to rescue their equipment and other items.

After dinner, Bard, Thorin, and Bilbo had quietly retreated to Bards office to examine the flash drive. Bard had plugged it into his laptop, and they had discovered that it contained a series of security access codes for Arkenstone Enterprises. “These would let me into the mainframe,” Bard says weakly, staring at the screen in awe. “I knew that, logically, these had to exist as a fail safe, but never in a million years did I ever think I’d get to see them.”

“Can you do it?” Thorin’s voice is barely over a whisper. Bilbo’s never seen him look like this before, all full of anxious hope, and he wonders if the same expression isn’t mirrored on his own face.

“I think I could,” Bard says slowly. “There’s a good deal of coding I’d have to do first, though, before I would even think of setting this thing loose into the system. I’d have to build a firewall around myself, in case anyone caught onto what I was doing.”

“How long would that take?” Thorin asks.

“I’d have to do it bit by bit, so as not to get caught,” Bard says. “So… four days, maybe?”

Thorin nods. “We could go on Friday,” he says to Bilbo.

Bilbo’s mouth goes dry. He’d known since the beginning that eventually he was going to have to face down Smaug, but it had all seemed so far off, like one of those ‘one day…’ thoughts. And all of the obstacles that they’d encountered - from the Troll Triplets to the Wargs to Murray to Thorin’s arrest - had only served to put additional distance between the present and that seemingly distant goal. But Friday is so suddenly a concrete date that it makes his head spin a little bit.

“There is one problem, though,” Bard adds. Thorin raises an eyebrow at him. “I can’t get into Smaug’s computer without getting that jamming device out of his office. And I bet the files that I’m looking for are on his computer alone.”

“Do you need to be at that specific computer?” Bilbo asks.

“I don’t think so,” Bard says. “I think I can route myself through the mainframe from my own terminal and hack my way into his desktop. It’ll be tricky, but I think I could do it, given enough time.”

“We’ll just have to get that jammer out of there, then,” Thorin says.

Bilbo gulps. He knows that when Thorin says ‘we’ he really means ‘Bilbo.’ His head is spinning.

“I need some air,” Bilbo gasps out, and dashes from the room. He darts out the front door and plops himself down on the front steps, and tries to steady his breathing, hoping that the cool night air will do the trick.

After about a minute, the front door opens again, and Thorin appears and takes a seat next to him. “You okay?” he asks.

“I will be, in a bit,” Bilbo says honestly. The two sit in silence for a while before Bilbo continues, “It’s just that everything is so… _real_ , all the sudden. I mean, I knew we were going to do this, but… I guess this whole time I thought I was just going to have to talk to Smaug, get him to trust me and then we’d go from there. There never was much of a concrete plan, was there?” He looks up at Thorin, who nods in solemn agreement. “But if what Bard says is true, then I’m going to have to get that device out of there; I’m going to have to _steal_ from him…” He lets out a low breath.

Thorin wraps an arm around him and plants a gentle kiss on his temple. “You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly. “We could think of another way.”

Bilbo chuffs out a laugh. “I said I would, Thorin, so I think I at least have to try. My contract says I do, anyway.”

Thorin suddenly drops his arm and fixes his gaze on the ground in front of him. He’s silent for several seconds before he speaks. “Is that why you’re still here - the contract?” His tone is somewhere between accusation and wounded hurt, and it gnaws at Bilbo in an uncomfortable way.

Bilbo reaches out a hand to Thorin’s face; Thorin flinches slightly at the touch, and it hurts Bilbo just a bit. “Oh, you idiot,” he says gently, before leaning in and placing a tender kiss to Thorin’s lips. “The contract might have been why I agreed to come here in the first place, but it certainly isn’t the reason that I’ve stayed.”

“Then why have you stayed?” Thorin whispers.

“I think you know,” Bilbo says, before kissing Thorin soundly. When the need for air eventually drives them apart, Bilbo speaks again. “This whole plan to get back at Smaug, it isn’t just for your family, Thorin,” Bilbo says. “It’s for my family, too. Because since I’ve been here, I’ve picked up ten brothers, two pseudo-nephews, and you.” He smiles warmly at Thorin. “I feel like I’ve stumbled into this crazy other life, and if you had told me back at Bag End what things would be like now, I wouldn’t have believed you in the slightest. In fact, I would have laughed you right out my front door if you’d told me that I was about to willingly walk into Gordon Smaug’s office and steal from him.”

“You really have gone from a grocer to a burglar in just a few short months,” Thorin teases.

Bilbo sighs, and leans into Thorin, nestling his head into his shoulder, and lacing their fingers together. “When this whole thing goes down on Friday,” he says, “it’s not just going to be about taking down Smaug. It’s going to be about you and me, and Fíli and Kíli; about your father and grandfather, and about Bard and his family. It’s going to be about getting justice for every wrong he’s ever done to anyone. It’s going to be - ”

But he doesn’t get to finish that thought, because Thorin leans in a kisses him then. When he pulls back, there’s a cheeky smile on his face. “I think you’ve had too much air because now you’re just waxing poetic,” he chuckles. “I think it’s time to get you back inside.”

Bilbo agrees, though he’s somewhat reluctant to give up their rare bit of privacy. But Thorin has a point; if they’re going to pull this off, they have work to do.

***

“Did you just hear what I just heard?”

Rookie detective Tauriel Wood looks across the surveillance van at her partner for the evening, detective Legolas Greenleaf, whose mouth is hanging open in surprise. She gently removes her headset, placing it down on the counter. “Yeah, I think I did,” she says weakly.

To be honest, she hadn’t felt quite right about the order that D.I. Greenleaf had given them earlier in the day, instructing them to bug Bard Bowman’s house, and she really hadn’t expected to get anything out of it. She’d been proven mostly right when the bugs they’d placed on the windows, intended to pick up any noise from inside the house, had come back with just interference; obviously, Bard had some kind of anti-surveillance device working inside. But the bug that they had placed on the side of the front steps had just given them audio feedback that was clear as day.

“I didn’t know Oakenshield had a boyfriend,” Legolas says. “That might be our missing link here. I bet he’s the one who orchestrated their escape - he has to be. And Fíli and Kíli - those are two new names. I’d stake my life that those are the two missing members of the Dirty Baker’s Dozen. God, I can’t wait to call this in. My dad was so right in suspecting that Bard Bowman had something to do with the escape this morning.”

“Hang on a second,” Tauriel says as Legolas reaches for his cell phone. “What if…” She pauses, and then steals herself for what she’s about to say. “What if we didn’t call it in right away.”

Legolas cocks his head questioningly at her. “What?”

“Now, hear me out,” Tauriel says. “This is gonna sound crazy, but just bear with me a moment. The second guy was talking about something happening on Friday. I think they’re gonna try and hit Smaug again. What if we back off a bit and see how this plays out?”

“Isn’t the point of our jobs to stop the bad guys _before_ they do bad things?” Legolas asks, staring at her incredulously.

Tauriel lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh, please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Are you really gonna try and tell me that Smaug is a ‘good guy’ in this situation? That shitbag is under suspicion of more charges than I can count on two hands - he’s just too good to get caught at it. All I’m saying is that maybe we should let Oakenshield do his thing, and when he goes in on Friday, we’ll follow him, and maybe finally be able to catch Smaug at something illegal in the process.”

Legolas chews this over for a moment. “That’s not exactly protocol…” he finally says.

“I know, but look at it this way,” Tauriel says earnestly, leaning forward in excitement. “We could take down two birds with one stone: Thorin Oakenshield and Gordon Smaug. If we call in that Bard Bowman is sheltering the Dirty Baker’s Dozen, then sure, yeah - we get a pat on the back from your dad. But at the end of the day, it’s not gonna matter because he’s still gonna be the golden boy of the hour for bringing them in in the first place. But if we wait until Friday, we could deliver both packages. You do want to get out from under your father’s shadow, don’t you?” Tauriel knows this is a low blow, but this plan is spinning so fast in her head right now that she’s willing to say whatever it takes to get Legolas on her side; she can’t let this one slip away.

Legolas sighs. “You do have a point, I guess,” he grumbles. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Tauriel snaps. “You just have to go along with it.”

“And you’re telling me you’ve got this whole thing thought through already?”

“Well, I’m still thinking,” Tauriel admits. “But I think it’ll work.”

Legolas sighs again. “If I lose my job over this…” he warns.

“You won’t,” Tauriel says reassuringly. “It’ll be my job on the line, because I’ll be the one going in.”

“Going in where?” Legolas asks.

“Undercover,” Tauriel says, a cheeky grin spreading across her face. “At Arkenstone Enterprises.” Legolas opens his mouth to protest, but Tauriel plows on before he can. “I’m gonna tell your dad that we have a solid lead on Bard Bowman, and that I think it’ll be beneficial if I keep a closer eye on him. I’ll pick up a job in IT at Arkenstone Enterprises, make sure I’m working with him. And hopefully I can weedle out of him just what he’s doing mixed up with Oakenshield. Once I have that, I can plan for what they’re going to do to Smaug. And all I need from you is to be ready with backup on Friday - nothing more.”

“I don’t like this, Tauriel,” Legolas says slowly.

“I’m not asking you to like it - just asking if you’ll help me,” Tauriel says.

Legolas pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, but it’s your funeral if my father finds out what you’re really up to.”

A smile spreads across Tauriel’s face, and she sticks out her hand to Legolas, who shakes it begrudgingly. “You’re not gonna regret this,” she promises.

Legolas grimaces. “Oh, I think I probably will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	17. Chapter 17

**Tuesday**

“Well, there it goes,” Bofur says. And with a dramatic click of the track pad, Bilbo’s throat turns dry, and he watches as the email to Smaug, requesting a meeting on Friday to talk about a possible partnership with Shire’s Organic Produce, vanishes from the screen. This was it; they were locked into it now.

“Relax, Bilbo,” Kíli says, patting him reassuringly on the back. “Bofur and I have done an excellent job designing your fake business - there’s no way he’s gonna be able to see through it; he’ll take the meeting.”

“It’s not getting the meeting that I’m worried about,” Bilbo admits, “It’s the part where I actually have to talk to him that’s bothering me.”

“You’re a natural charmer,” Fíli says. “He’ll love you, I guarantee it.”

Thorin grumps a small noise from next to them, but says nothing; Bilbo can’t help but grin at this.

***

Bard looks up at the knock on his office door, and instinctively minimizes the screen he’s been working on. It’s a good call, too, because it’s Vladimir Bolg, his direct boss, who’s standing at the door. Next to him is a pretty redhead who Bard’s not seen before.

“Bard, I’d like to introduce our new security programmer to you,” Bolg says, gesturing towards the girl. “This is Tauriel - and, Tauriel, I’d like you to meet Bard, our top IT systems manager.”

Bard stands and steps out from behind his desk, reaching out to shake Tauriel’s hand. Her grip is a lot firmer than he’d expected. “Welcome aboard,” he says.

“I’d like her to spend a day or two with you,” Bolg says. “I need someone to show her the ropes, and I thought you’d be the perfect candidate.”

Bard tries his best not to blanch at the words. No - this was not what he needed right now. He needed to be left alone if he was going to be able to build his firewall in time; everyone was counting on him to do it.

“Er - I’m a bit busy right now,” he says. “Juggling a lot of big projects, you know. Got some deadlines to meet. I don’t know that I’d be the most attentive teacher at the moment.”

Bolg shrugs, seemingly nonplussed. “That’s fine,” he says flatly. “She can just watch what you’re up to, then. I’ll have a laptop brought in for her, and you can set her up at the spare desk.”

It takes everything in Bard’s power to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Sure thing,” he grits out. Bolg pats Tauriel on the shoulder, and then departs. Bard sighs, and gestures towards the empty desk on the other side of the office. “Well, take a seat, I guess.”

***

“How was your day, dad?” Bain asks through a mouthful of garlic mashed potatoes.

“Yes, any progress?” Thorin adds, looking pointedly across the table at Bard. His voice has an anxious edge to it, Bilbo notes. Thorin doesn’t like waiting, and Bilbo is half convinced that these next few days of sitting around while other people play their roles in the set up might possibly kill him.

Bard sighs. “I think my boss was pretty miffed at me for taking yesterday off to pick up the charity donations,” he says, “so he saddled me with the new girl they’ve just hired, and set her up in my office for the time being.”

“Will that set the plan back?” Bilbo asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” Bard says. “I’ve given her some busy tasks, which’ll keep her occupied for the next few days. I feel a bit bad about it, honestly. She seems like a bright girl, and I’m just sort of ignoring her.”

“Well, when Arkenstone Enterprises is back in the hands of its rightful owners and all is well again, I’m sure she’ll get over it,” Balin says.

Suddenly, their conversation is interrupted by a shriek from the kitchen. Bilbo leans back in his chair and cranes his neck to see what the fuss is about. It’s Sigrid, he’s sure, who’s screamed; she’d gone in there a few minutes ago to put the finishing touches on a dessert that she’d made, and Fíli had eagerly jumped up to help her. And sure enough, Bilbo spies Fíli in the middle of the kitchen, absolutely covered in powdered sugar, looking mildly perplexed at this apparently new development; Sigrid is stood next to him, clutching her side in laughter.

Bilbo smiles; Bard scowls.

**Wednesday**

“He’s replied!” Bofur shouts.

Bilbo looks up, startled, and immediately feels his stomach begin to turn icy. He drops the book he’s been reading, and scrambles off of his armchair and over to the defunct bar where Bofur is sitting with his laptop. A moment later, Bilbo hears the sound of the basement door being wrenched open, and Thorin comes barreling down the stairs so fast he nearly falls.

“And?” Thorin prompts as he comes skidding to a stop next to Bilbo.

“And we’re in,” Bofur says with a grin. “Eleven o’clock Friday morning.”

Bilbo instinctively reaches out for Thorin as he begins to feel a bit faint at Bofur’s words. Thorin wraps his arms around Bilbo to steady him as he starts to sway slightly on his feet. So, that’s that. The meeting was set. There was no turning back now.

Thorin presses a soft kiss to the top of Bilbo’s head. “We’re so close,” he whispers. Bilbo hums in agreement, not entirely sure that he would be able to form proper words at the moment if he tried.

***

Bard lets out a growl of frustration, and brings a fist down on his desk, causing the picture frame that holds his favorite photo of his kids to rattle and nearly topple. He reaches out a hand to steady it.

“Anything I can help with?”

Bard glances over to see Tauriel looking at him. Jesus - she’s been so quiet he’d completely forgotten that she was there. “Er - no,” Bard says quickly. “Just some trouble with some coding. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

Tauriel moves her gaze from Bard to his screen. He flexes his fingers unconsciously, reaching slightly for his mouse to minimize the screen, but is able to catch himself as he thinks better of it; that would surely look suspicious, and the last thing he needs right now is for the new kid to go digging into this.

“You’re building a firewall.” It’s not a question, and her tone makes Bard a bit nervous.

“Yes,” he says after just too long of a beat, which he hopes she doesn’t notice. “I’m trying to create one to house some security codes. Just a bit of extra protection, you know. All purely hypothetical, of course - I’m sure the codes’ current protection is just fine; we’ve never had a problem with it before.”

Tauriel nods slowly, and Bard silently hopes that he’s sold her on the explanation. “Look four lines back,” she says suddenly.

Bard’s stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot. “What?”

“In your code. Your problem’s most likely not in front of you - try looking four or five lines back.”

Bard lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and he smiles softly at her. “Thanks for the tip,” he says, turning back to his computer. He scrolls back, and sure enough, five lines back, he sees where he’s written himself into a corner. He lets out a soft chuckle. God, this kid was good.

***

Kíli makes his third noise of discontent in a quarter of an hour, and this one is so audible that it causes Bilbo to look up from his book and ask, “ _What_?”

Kíli’s gaze is laser focused across the room to where his brother and Sigrid are sitting on the makeshift stage. Fíli’s seated in front of the keyboard, and Sigrid has an acoustic guitar laying across her lap; they’re trying to figure out if there’s a song they both know that they can duet together.

“I feel bad for him,” Kíli sniffs. “He’s been following her around like some kind of lost puppy ever since we got here; it’s embarrassing.”

Bilbo chuckles. “So what if your brother has a crush?” he says. “Good for him, honestly. Sigrid seems like a nice girl.”

Kíli scrunches his face in annoyance. “I preferred you and Thorin’s silent pining to this,” he says. “At least the rest of us could have a good laugh behind your backs when the two of you caught each other staring and then had the good grace to look embarrassed about it. But this?” He gestures vaguely towards the stage. “He has no shame.”

“You’re just jealous,” Thorin smirks as he very pointedly wraps his arms around Bilbo and hauls him backwards on the couch so that he’s flush against Thorin’s chest; he leans down and plants a soft kiss to Bilbo’s temple. Kíli pulls a face.

**Thursday**

“What is it?” Dwalin asks, staring at the small vial in Nori’s hand, whose contents is oozing about like some kind of liquidy sludge as he tips it slightly.

“Let’s just call it our secret weapon,” Nori says slyly, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

“Will it kill him?” Bombur asks. Nori shakes his head.

“Pity,” Thorin sniffs, crossing his arm and staring at the vial.

“It won’t kill him, but let’s just say that his stomach won’t be thanking us anytime soon,” Nori smirks.

“Where’d that come from? Mera?” Dori asks. Nori says nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, which Dori apparently takes for an affirmative answer. “Jesus - when’d you have time to see her?”

“I don’t like Mera,” Ori informs him. “She scares me.” This elicits a bark of laughter from Nori, and he wraps an arm around his brother’s shoulder in a crushing hug.

“I bet she’d love to hear that,” he says.

***

“Hurry up, you slags! The boss is waiting - we’re on a timeline here, people!”

Sigrid glances up from her station to see her boss, Chef Alfrid, pacing back and forth in front of the line, his hands clasped behind his back, and his trademark sneer set firmly on his face. He turns and heads off towards the door. Quickly dropping her knife and wiping the sweat from her brow, Sigrid hurries after him.

“Alfrid, can I have a word?”

Alfrid turns on his heel and spins to face her, his dark unibrow lifted in quizzical anticipation. “What is it?”

“I was looking at the schedule,” Sigrid says, “and I saw that tomorrow there’s a slot for a special meal prep for a meeting that Mr. Smaug has with Shire’s Organic Produce, and - well, I was just wondering if I could assist?”

Alfrid looks down his nose at her. “I was thinking that I would take care of that myself, since it’s going directly to Mr. Smaug and all,” he says.

“Of course,” Sigrid says quickly. “It’s just that I saw that it’s slated to be vegetarian, and seeing as that’s become sort of my specialty here, I’d offer to help.” Alfrid looks nonplussed, so Sigrid quickly changes tactics. “And I also thought that it might give me a chance to show off some of the skills that I’ve been able to learn under your expert instruction.”

“Ah, there it is,” Alfrid sneers, “that self-serving angle I was waiting for.” He regards her a moment before continuing. “But I appreciate your honesty, so I’ll let you help. Run along, now.” He gestures back towards the line.

Sigrid smiles sweetly at him. “Thank you, Alfrid,” she says. He merely sniffs, then turns and walks out of the kitchen. As soon as he’s gone, the fake smile slides from Sigrid’s face, replaced with a self-satisfied smirk. Her first objective was complete.

***

“Thorin, for the last time, I’m not having this argument with you!” Bilbo nearly howls. “It’s not safe for you to be there!”

Thorin huffs and folds his arms defensively across his chest. “It’s not safe for you or the boys either,” he growls.

“No, it’s not,” Bilbo concedes, “but we’re the only three not currently wanted by the entire police force of Chicago. Have you seen the news today, hmm? You’d be recognized the moment you set foot onto Arkenstone Enterprises property. And anyway, Kíli will be with Bard, and Fíli will be with Sigrid; they’ll know how to get the boys out of there if something goes wrong.”

“But what about you?” Thorin says, his voice softening. “You’ll be alone in there.” He steps forward and takes both of Bilbo’s hands in his gently.

Bilbo sighs. “That’s just the risk I’m going to have to take, Thorin,” he says.

“Well, I don’t like it,” Thorin says with a renewed scowl. “I want you to have an escape plan, too. I want someone to be there to get you out in case things turn sour.”

“Well, it can’t be you, or anyone else from the company,” Bilbo says.

“No, it can’t be,” a voice pipes up from the other end of the basement. Bilbo nearly jumps out of his skin; he’d thought they were alone down here. A figure sits up on one of the couches, and as he moves forward into the light, Bilbo sees that it’s Nori. “But I _do_ have an idea,” he says. “Let me make a call.” He darts up the stairs.

***

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bard curses. He rubs his temples, staring at the screen in front of him. He’s stuck, and he can’t see a way around it. And if he doesn’t fix this now, there’s no way they’re going to be able to pull off their plan tomorrow without this protection.

“Can I help?” Tauriel asks. Bard looks over at her, only to see that her eyes are focused on his screen instead of himself.

“I don’t think - ”

“ _Please_ ,” Tauriel says. She stands and marches over to his desk before Bard can protest. He feels his heart sink as he hears her inhale sharply as her eyes scan through the code on his screen. “Bard, what is this?” she says quietly.

“I told you - it’s a prototype firewall,” he says.

“This is some sophisticated shit,” she says. “You’d only need this if you were anticipating an attack within the system…” Her eyes suddenly snap onto Bard. “What are you up to?”

“Like I said, it’s - ”

“I don’t need the bullshit answer you have for your boss - I need the real one,” Tauriel snaps. She glances quickly up at the door, and then lowers her voice. “Look, you’re obviously stuck, and I can help you.”

“I don’t think - ”

“ _Listen_ \- I’ve only seen this type of thing work once, and that’s because I built it.” Bard looks up at her. There’s a hint of smugness in her face, but her eyes are hard and serious. He swallows, and knows that he has to make a decision about his next move right now.

Without breaking eye contact with Tauriel, Bard reaches for his cell phone, and dials Bain. “Hey, kiddo, listen,” Bard says as soon as his son picks up. “I’m going to have a friend from work come over for dinner tonight. Can you let the house guests know what to expect?”

Once he hangs up, he nods curtly at Tauriel. “We can’t talk here - I’ll explain things in the car.”

***

“How do we know we can trust her?” Dwalin growls. Balin rolls his eyes, and preemptively tightens his grip on his brother’s arms, just in case he tries to lunge at Bard for a second time.

Bard sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “We don’t really have a choice at this point,” he admits. “I’m at a standstill with the coding, and I think she might be the only one who’s able to help us.”

“But you’ve only known her, what - three days?” Bofur points out.

Bilbo chuffs out a laugh. “You lot only knew me a few hours before you asked me to put my life on hold and move up here to a different state with you,” he points out.

Bofur concedes a grin. “Fair enough,” he says.

“The fact that she’s only been there three days might play out to our advantage, though,” Balin says. “She hasn’t been there long enough to be swept up into any bullshit that Smaug might be pedaling to his employees.”

“She’s a smart kid,” Bard says earnestly. “I think we have to give her a chance.”

There’s a long silence. Finally, Thorin breaks it. “Bring her down,” he says.

Bard whistles, and immediately Bilbo can hear the sound of feet scampering off upstairs; evidently, Tilda had been sitting guard at the top of the basement stairs, and had just run off to collect her siblings and Tauriel. A moment later, the door opens, and the four sets of footsteps begin to descend down the stairs. Most of the company disperse at this, leaving Bard, Thorin, Bilbo, and Kíli at the bar where Bard has his work laptop set up.

As Tauriel turns at the bottom of the stairs and they get their first good look at her, Kíli makes a very interesting noise from next to Bilbo, and immediately ducks behind him. It takes everything within Bilbo not to laugh, because he’s watching Kíli’s face contort into a very familiar expression; he might even say it’s the same one that Fíli’s been wearing recently every time he looks at Sigrid.

Tauriel stops dead in her tracks as she catches sight of Thorin. “Well, Bard, when you said you had house guests, this is not what I was expecting,” she says. “Really didn’t think I’d find the Dirty Baker’s Dozen hiding out in your basement. The fuck are you up to?”

There’s something about her tone that immediately makes Bilbo uneasy. She’s just a little too calm, he thinks, for someone who’s just found fourteen criminals hiding out in their co-worker's basement. He’d been thrown into the cusp of a panic attack for considerably smaller offences several weeks ago. God - what a different world that had been.

“Tauriel, I’d like you to meet Thorin Oakenshield - the rightful heir to Arkenstone Enterprises,” Bard says. Tauriel and Thorin nod at each other, but say nothing. “And this is Bilbo Baggins - the one who’s responsible for finding the security codes I told you about earlier, and our man on the inside tomorrow. And this is Kíli Durin, who’ll be assisting me on the tech end. Well, assisting us, I should say, if you’re really with us in this.”

Tauriel looks hard at Thorin. “What are you hoping to accomplish tomorrow?” she says.

“That’s not your concern,” Thorin says evenly.

“I think it is,” Tauriel counters. “If I’m going to help you, I want to know why I should.”

She folds her arms, and levels a cool stare at him, which Thorin returns. Finally, he speaks. “Gordon Smaug is a dirty criminal who stole my grandfather’s company from him, left my family penniless, had Bard’s father murdered, and framed me for a robbery I did not commit when he got wind that I was back in town. Our objective for tomorrow is to find the documentation to finally prove all of the terrible things he’s done.”

Tauriel lets out a low breath. “So, not much, then?” she says sarcastically, the corner of her mouth turning up in the hint of a smile. “So you’re being framed for the White Gems of Lasgalen theft, huh?”

“My record is not exactly clean - I know that,” Thorin says, “but I did not steal those gems.”

“Okay, so hypothetically: we get into Arkenstone Enterprises’ mainframe, get the jamming device out of Smaug’s office, and get a hold of the documents that you _think_ exist - then what?”

“Then we turn the documents over to the police, Smaug stands trial, he rots in jail for the rest of his miserable life, and I get my family’s company back,” Thorin spits.

“That’s it?” Tauriel’s tone is weird again, Bilbo thinks. She sounds almost… disappointed.

“Were you expecting something else?” Bilbo chances, hoping to maybe catch her off guard.

It doesn’t work; instantly, her tone levels out again. “Nope.”

“So, will you help us?” Thorin asks.

There’s a heavy pause for a few moments, and then Tauriel slowly nods. “I build the firewall, Bard gets us into the mainframe and finds those documents, and you…?” She looks pointedly at Kíli, whose face reddens slightly under her gaze.

“And I assist,” he says weakly. Bilbo tries his best not to laugh - this was karma if he’d ever seen it. He bet that he wouldn’t be hearing Kíli making fun of his brother for developing a crush again any time soon.

“Right,” Tauriel says, suddenly business-like. She cracks her knuckles, and turns to look at Bard. “Are you on a secure connection right now?” she asks, and he nods. “Okay - then let’s get to work.”

Bard, Tauriel, and Kíli cluster around the laptop as Tauriel begins adding new code to their program. Bilbo gently takes Thorin’s hand, and leads him over to one of the couches, where Fíli and Sigrid are sitting (rather closely, Bilbo notices with a smile), trying their best to entertain a very wriggly and obviously bored Tilda.

“Hey, Til,” Fíli says, “do you wanna see a funny picture of Thorin in jail?” He flashes his uncle and cheeky smile, and Thorin scrubs a hand over his face, his cheeks tingeing pink with just the slightest hint of embarrassment. Tilda giggles her ascent, and Fíli darts up the stairs to go and find his camera.

Bilbo settles himself against Thorin’s chest and sighs. “Do you trust her?” he whispers.

“We don’t really have a choice,” Thorin says after a beat. Bilbo knows he’s right, so he decides to drop the subject, and snuggles further into Thorin’s chest. Thorin’s warm, like he usually is, and Bilbo closes his eyes, trying to commit the feeling of this moment to memory. He’s not exactly _convinced_ that something is going to go wrong tomorrow, but just in case, he wants to hold onto this simple moment for as long as he can.

Unfortunately, it’s not a very long moment, as the sound of the basement door opening followed by a set of heavy footsteps startles him from his thoughts. It’s only Fíli, returning with his camera. He plops back down on the couch, and Tilda immediately scrambles up onto his lap so that they can look through the photos together.

Bilbo’s attention is snapped away again as Thorin begins to absently stroke a hand up and down Bilbo’s arm. “Are you sure you’re going to be safe tomorrow?” he murmurs into Bilbo’s hair, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Nori said he’d get me an escape plan, and I trust him,” Bilbo says.

“Yes, but - ”

Bilbo never gets to hear the end of this thought as it’s suddenly interrupted by a strangled shout from Fíli. There’s a sudden commotion in the room as Tilda tumbles from his lap in surprise, and Fíli springs from the couch, looking wildly panicked. “Stop everything!” he yells.

“Fíli, what - ” Thorin starts.

“She’s a fucking cop!” He jabs an accusatory finger in Tauriel’s direction, and she blanches. “She’s in the picture!” Fíli splutters, brandishing his camera about. “Jesus Christ - I knew she looked familiar.”

Bilbo snatches it from him and looks at the screen; his heart sinks. Sure enough, in the far left corner of one of the group pictures that Fíli had taken at the station the other day, was Tauriel. Thorin looks at the camera over Bilbo’s shoulder; Bilbo feels him stiffen, and then in the next moment he’s rather rudely dumped onto the floor as Thorin makes a beeline for Tauriel. In a few quick strides he crosses the distance between the couch and the bar and lunges forward, pinning Tauriel against the bar with a stiff forearm. “Talk,” he growls.

“Okay - let me explain,” Tauriel stammers. “It’s true - I’m a cop, but I’m not here for you… anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Thorin rumbles.

“Okay, look - when you escaped from the station the other day, my partner and I were assigned the task of conducting surveillance on Bard because he was the primary suspect in the escape. Sorry.” She looks rather apologetically at Bard, who only grimaces, his face pale. Tauriel turns back to Thorin before continuing. “We picked up a conversation you and Bilbo had outside the house the other night, which clued us in on your plan to get back at Smaug. My partner wanted to call it in, but I thought we could kill two birds with one stone - take down you _and_ Smaug - if we let your plan play out. So I went undercover at Arkenstone Enterprises, hoping that I could get close to Bard, and that he’d let slip something about your plan. But I never expected to be led right into the middle of it.”

At this, Bard groans, and puts his face in his hands.

“But after everything you and Bard have told me tonight,” Tauriel adds quickly, “I have to say that… you’ve managed to change my mind quite a bit. I knew Smaug was a piece of shit, but theft and murder? Jesus Christ - I want to see this guy go down just as much as you do.”

“Why should I believe anything you’ve just said?” Thorin growls.

“Because I don’t have a reason to lie anymore,” Tauriel says simply. “My cover’s been blown. I knew the moment that I walked in here that there was a very good chance that one of you were going to recognize me. And I chose to come anyway. And to be honest - I’m a crap cop. I only got into it because I got caught hacking in their system and was given an ultimatum: work for them, or take my chances with a trial.”

Again, Bilbo stands by his earlier statement: the world of full of criminals hiding in plain sight.

There a long, heavy pause. Finally, Thorin speaks. “This ends tomorrow, one way or another,” he says gruffly. “And I want to know - what do you get out of helping us?”

“Well, I get to see Smaug go to jail,” Tauriel says. “And I was maybe hoping for a job once this is all over and you’re back in charge of your own company?” She looks sweetly at Thorin, the hint of a smile toying at the corner of her mouth.

Thorin considers this a moment, and reaches out his hand to shake hers. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
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> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
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	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow this chapter took so much longer to write than I anticipated. And it's a Big Boy because I really couldn't find a good place to pause. 
> 
> Also, I'm back into my busy time of year at work, so the updates might not be coming as regularly as I would like them to (aka baseball season is The Worst and I don't have a life for seven months out of the year because of it).

Bilbo opens his eyes slowly. Thorin is still asleep next to him, his arms looped loosely around Bilbo, his breathing deep and even. Bilbo wants nothing more than to burrow deeper under the blanket and curl into Thorin and just stay like this forever. But he knows what day it is, and knows that that can’t happen.

He silently extricates himself from Thorin and stands and stretches. This has been the fourth night of sleeping on the floor of Bard’s basement, and, as much as Bilbo doesn’t want to admit it, it’s starting to get to him. After a bit of work, he finally gets his back to pop. Satisfied, he quietly dresses and makes his way upstairs.

Bard, Sigrid, Balin, Dori, and Kíli are already in the kitchen. “Alright, laddie?” Balin asks as Bilbo leans against the counter, and he nods. Bard slides him a cup of coffee, which he accepts gratefully.

As he blows on his coffee to cool it, Tauriel enters the kitchen. “Morning,” she says cheerfully.

Bilbo watches, amused, as Kíli’s eyes grow wide, and a slight blush creeps into his cheeks. He and Bilbo lock eyes, which only causes the coloring to intensify. “Where’s our fearless leader?” Kíli says quickly in an attempt to dispel Bilbo’s attention.

Bilbo sighs. “Still asleep,” he says. “But I guess it’s time we wake him, and everyone else.”

He pads from the kitchen, and makes his way back down to the basement. He wakes the rest of the company as gently as he can. Like usual, there’s a good deal of grumbling, and Bilbo can’t help but smile. There’s a small part of him that’s going to miss this, miss the camaraderie that’s developed between the lot of them while being on the run. Because, after today, things are going to change - for better or for worse. If they’re lucky, things will go according to plan - and then what? They’ll go back to living their lives, Bilbo supposes. Bofur could reopen the pub with Bombur and Bifur; Dori, Nori, and Ori could go back to their shop; Balin would go back to his law practice with Dís; Kíli would go back to school; Óin, Glóin, and Dwalin could go back to doing... whatever it is that they do on the regular; and Thorin would take control over Arkenstone Enterprises, presumably with Fíli at his side, learning the ropes. And Bilbo? Well, Bilbo doesn’t dwell too long on the thought. There’s nothing for him to go _back_ to here. The thought of of starting over, starting something new here in Chicago with his newfound family is quite overwhelming, and he can’t have that right now; he can’t afford to be distracted from the task at hand. Because if things go sour with Smaug today, he’s acutely aware that there will be no future for him, or any of the company, should he fail.

Bilbo wakes Thorin last, rubbing his shoulder gently until his eyes flutter open, sleep still clinging to them as he blinks. “Is it time already?” he mumbles, reaching clumsily towards Bilbo and lacing their fingers together.

Bilbo sighs. “I’m afraid it is,” he says. “I should get dressed.”

Reluctantly, he lets go of Thorin’s hand and heads towards the bar where his suit is hanging. Bain had come back from the store yesterday with a crisp, white button down shirt for him, as well as a green and yellow striped tie. As Bilbo shucks his jeans and his sweater and replaces them with the dress clothes, he feels a bit as if he’s putting on a kind of armor. Is this the modern equivalent of suiting up for battle, he thinks with a laugh.

As he begins to fumble with the tie, he’s startled as he feels warm hands suddenly on his shoulders. “Let me.” Thorin’s voice is low and close to his ear. Bilbo instinctively relaxes back into his chest for a moment, before he turns to face Thorin. Thorin portions out the length of the tie and then begins to knot it slowly and deliberately. A silent look passes between them as Thorin finishes the knot and straightens it under Bilbo’s collar. They both understand that once they go upstairs, things will be set in motion that cannot be undone. Despite his anxiety for what this day might bring, Bilbo gently takes Thorin’s hand and leads him up the stairs anyway.

Most everyone else is in the dining room when they reappear. Bard, Sigrid, and Tauriel are now dressed for work. Fíli is outfitted smarter than usual, like Bilbo is, and Bilbo can quite proudly say that Fíli would most certainly pass as a pompous food stylist in his book.

Suddenly Bain arrives in the dining room, dressed, to Bilbo’s surprise, in a full suit. He takes a seat next to Thorin, an incredibly business-like expression on his face. “Bain, what - ?” Bard starts.

“Just a precaution,” Bain says quickly. He turns to look at Thorin. “I’m studying criminal law at school,” he informs him, “so just in case things go tits up today, I’ll be your lawyer, Mr. Oakenshield.”

Thorin scrubs a hand over his face, and then turns to look at Bilbo imploringly. “Don’t fuck this up,” he says with a quiet groan.

***

“What do you mean he’s not on the visitors list?” Bard nearly howls.

The poor security kid shrinks back in his seat. Bard feels a bit bad about this; he’s not one for yelling usually, but if there ever was a day to break rules, today was it. “Sorry, Mr. Bowman,” the kid says. “I don’t see him on here. I can call my supervisor - ”

“I don’t have time for this,” Bard cuts in. “I called about this a week ago and spoke with your supervisor directly. This is the only day I have to work with this young man, and if you won’t let him in, he can’t get his internship credit. Do you want to be personally responsible for that, hmm?”

The security kid is close to shaking now. “N-no,” he stutters. “I can print up a new pass, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Bard says coolly. He exchanges a look with Kíli, who lets out a breath in relief.

A minute later, Bard, Tauriel, and Kíli are walking down the maze of corridors towards the IT offices, Kíli’s freshly printed visitor’s pass clipped to the front pocket of his pants. “Of course they put you guys in the basement,” Kíli says with a laugh as they descend further into the depths of Arkenstone Enterprises.

“Normally it’s annoying,” Bard admits, “but today that might work out to our advantage. If something goes wrong, it’ll take them ages to get down to us.”

“But if they do, we’re trapped,” Tauriel says. Kíli’s face pales a bit at this.

Bard rolls his eyes. “Not helpful, Tauriel.”

“Just being pragmatic,” she says with a small shrug.

***

“Okay, that’s all of it,” Fíli says as he packs a last head of cabbage into the crate. Bilbo has to laugh; Shire’s Organic Produce is, in all actuality, just produce that Bain had picked up from Whole Foods yesterday. There’s a small part of him that feels slightly disappointed at this, no matter how funny it may be. He remembers when they had first started scheming about this day, so many weeks ago. They’d originally planned to have some of what Bilbo actually grew at Bag End Farms shipped up to them, but after their encounter with the Wargs, things had gone in an entirely different direction, and improvisation had become their new norm.

Bilbo starts a bit as he hears the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway. Nori peaks out the kitchen window, and his face breaks into a smile. “Ride’s here,” he says. “Come and meet your driver, Bilbo.”

Bilbo follows him outside, Thorin close behind at his elbow, and Fíli not far behind him, produce crate in tow. There’s a black car parked in the driveway. Leaning casually against the driver’s side door is a slender woman with dark hair that’s pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. She’s dressed in a fitted black suit, and there’s a cheeky smile on her face.

“Mr. Underhill, I presume,” she says, dropping Bilbo’s false name for the day, and swinging into a low, sarcastic bow. Although he’s only known her a few seconds, Bilbo is absolutely convinced that he’s currently looking at the female version of Nori.

Nori chuckles. “Bilbo, I’d like you to meet Mera - second-best thief this side of Chicago.” He beams proudly at her.

Mera steps forward and grasps Bilbo’s hand in a firm shake. “Make that _best_ thief,” she says coolly, suddenly producing Nori’s wallet in her other hand seemingly out of nowhere. Nori scowls and snatches it back from her, then steps in close and plants a tender kiss on the top of her nose. Mera smirks, obviously quite satisfied with herself.

“Do you have everything you need?” Nori asks.

Mera nods. “I’ve got a phone for Bilbo, and some extra protection stashed in the car, just in case.” Bilbo’s stomach drops. He’s not quite sure he wants to know what ‘extra protection’ means.

“Well, best get to it, then,” Nori says heavily. He opens the back door for Fíli, who slides the crate of produce onto the seat, and then circles around to the other side of the car to climb in himself.

Bofur trots down from the house, carrying Bilbo’s briefcase with him. “It’s got everything you’ll need,” Bofur assures him as he hands it over. “All the reports, spreadsheets, photos, and business cards Smaug could ever ask for.” All Bilbo can do is nod, his throat suddenly constricted with anxiety. Bofur clasps a hand on his shoulder, and then retreats back to the house.

Thorin gently puts an arm around Bilbo and steers him to the other side of the car. “Are you ready?” he asks quietly.

“I have to be,” Bilbo says weakly. “There’s no other choice now.” He looks up to meet Thorin’s eyes, which are bright and so brilliantly blue and much more tender than Bilbo ever imagined they could be.

Thorin leans down and kisses Bilbo softly. “Good luck,” he whispers against his lips. Bilbo has no words, so instead he reluctantly climbs into the car and closes the door, because he knows that if he doesn’t go now, he never will.

Once Mera has slipped into the driver’s seat, Nori leans down, resting his folded arms on the frame of the open window. “Be safe,” he says softly.

“I will,” Mera says. “And if I see anything I fancy in the lobby, I promise I’ll grab it without getting caught.” She smiles innocently.

Nori chuckles, and plants a quick but heated kiss to her lips. “God - I could marry you,” he says.

“Is that a joke?” Mera laughs.

“It could be a promise, if you like.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. Good god - what was in the water in Lake-Town that had everyone tripping over themselves with romance?

Nori and Mera are still staring at each other, so Bilbo coughs in order to break the moment. “Well, good luck, lads,” Nori says quickly, straightening and backing away from the car. “See you on the other side.”

Mera rolls up the window, starts the engine, and then begins to back the car out of the driveway. Nori has turned back to the house, but Thorin is still stood where Bilbo had left him, still as a statue, his eyes trained on the car. Once they’re on the road, Bilbo swivels in his seat to keep looking back at Thorin until they’ve gone far enough down the road that he can no longer see him.

***

“Okay, Kíli - on the back of your badge there should be a visitor’s login code. Read it out to me,” Bard says. Kíli reads off the string of number and letters, which Bard enters into his computer.

“Why are we using his login?” Tauriel asks.

“It’s just a generic login,” Bard explains. “There’s a few other visitors onsite today, so if we’re made, it’ll take them a while to pinpoint exactly who’s in the system. Once they’ve found out who it is, they’ll have to take the time to try and locate where he is in the building, too. It’ll buy us some time instead of them being able to trace us back to my terminal immediately.”

Kíli and Tauriel exchange an impressed look. “And you said you weren’t a criminal until you met your new friends,” Tauriel teases. “Christ - you certainly think like one.”

Bard feels the hint of a blush creep into his cheeks. “Well, when you’ve had three years to stew on your father’s murder at the hands of your boss, you think of some creative ways to get back at him,” he says. “I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought of a plan similar to this one before; I just never had the tools I needed to carry it out until Bilbo found that flash drive.” He watches as Kíli’s hand unconsciously drifts to his pocket, where said flash drive was currently stowed.

“Okay - I’m in security’s visitor log,” Tauriel says from her desk. “We should know the minute Bilbo’s signed into the building.”

“Kíli, come over here and be my second set of eyes,” Bard says, motioning for the young man to pull up the extra chair behind his desk. “I’ll start loading up the firewall. We need to be ready to move the moment that jammer is out of Smaug’s office.”

***

“Well, it’s certainly… bigger than I expected,” Bilbo says. They’re sitting in traffic, waiting to turn into the front parking lot of Arkenstone Enterprises. The building is tall and made mostly of large, glass windows. Most of the panes are clear, but there are the occasional jewel toned ones scattered artistically about, causing the building to give off the most interesting rays of colored light.

“I’ve gone by this building for twenty three years, but never gone inside,” Fíli says quietly from the backseat.

The simple statement hits Bilbo like a ton of bricks. That was why he was doing this - that was why he couldn’t fail today. Fíli and Kíli have lived their whole lives, he thinks, in the shadow of a future that was stolen from them. And Thorin and Dís have watched Smaug lord over what was theirs for more than twenty years. This was just as much about restorative justice as it was about bringing down a terrible man.

“Here,” Mera says, suddenly snapping Bilbo from his thoughts. She pops open the center console and reaches inside to pull out a cellphone, which she hands to him. Before she can close it back up, however, Bilbo catches sight of a handgun also stored inside; his stomach twists uncomfortably, and he and Mera lock eyes. “Just a precaution,” she says.

“You’re assuming that if something goes wrong, we’ll be able to get out of the building and back to the car,” Bilbo says quietly, suddenly nauseous.

“It’s more for me than you,” Mera admits. “If things turn bad, I’m probably the only one with a chance of escape.” Her mouth turns downwards in a small frown. “Sorry,” she adds, rather apologetically.

Bilbo lets out a breath. “No, you’re probably right,” he says. Fíli gulps from the backseat.

“Anyway - the phone,” Mera says, quickly changing the subject. “It’s programmed with some fake contacts. If you need to get in touch with me, call Mr. Bolger - that’ll ring me directly. They’re clean sim cards - I just picked them up this morning.”

Bilbo nods and swallows thickly as the light in front of them turns green. Mera steers them into Arkenstone Enterprises, and suddenly it’s real. As they pull up by the front door, two smartly dressed valets immediately descend on the car, insisting that they take it to park in another visitors lot. Mera reluctantly agrees, and leads Bilbo and Fíli into the main lobby.

The lobby is spacious and well lit. There’s a small lounge area furnished with several black leather armchairs, obviously designated for anyone waiting for an appointment. Mera walks them over to the front desk. “Mr. Underhill here for an 11 o’clock appointment with Mr. Smaug,” she says confidently.

The girl behind the desk types something into her computer, and then nods. “If you wouldn’t mind just stepping through security,” she says, gesturing towards a metal detector to their right. Bilbo slides his briefcase onto the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine next to it, and Fíli hefts his crate of produce up behind it. Both pass through the machine without issue; similarly, Bilbo, Fíli, and Mera step through the metal detector without a sound. Once through, they’re handed visitors badges.

“If you’d just take a seat over there,” the girl from the desk says, pointing to the lounge area. She turns to look at Fíli. “Security will escort you down to the kitchens.”

One of the men that had been next to the metal detector steps forward, extending his arm towards a hallway to their right, indicating that Fíli should head down that way. With one last look at Bilbo, he sets off, leaving Bilbo and Mera to settle into the lounge and wait to be summoned up to Smaug’s office.

***

“Okay - Bilbo’s in,” Tauriel says suddenly, breaking the heavy, anxious silence that’s been filling the room for the past few minutes.

Bard lets out a breath. “Okay, here we go,” he says.

Kíli watches as Bard boots up the firewall and it starts to load. His stomach is in a knot of anxiety. All his life, his uncle had talked about Arkenstone Enterprises and his wild dream of taking it back someday, but it had always seemed like a fantasy to Kíli, something you just talked about to make yourself feel braver any time you were down. But now Kíli was here in the belly of the beast, and he knew that Bilbo and Fíli were elsewhere in the building, each of them on their own.

Fíli had been there with him every step of the way so far, and today Kíli isn’t brave enough to pretend that there’s not a strange emptiness inside of him without his brother by his side. If he could take back all of the mean things he’d said to Fíli earlier this week about how fast and hard he’d developed a crush on Sigrid, Kíli would; if things went wrong today, he didn’t want their last goodbye to each other to be on strained and jealous terms. He was glad, after all, that if Fíli couldn’t be with him here today, at least he was with Sigrid.

***

“What exactly does a food stylist _do_ , if you don’t mind me asking?”

Fíli hasn’t been in the kitchen for five minutes, and already he’s fighting the urge to punch Chef Alfrid in the face. He now understands why Sigrid says she hates her job sometimes.

“It’s my job to make sure the food looks presentable,” Fíli says coolly.

Alfrid’s face twists into a sour expression. “ _Presentable_ ,” he sneers. “I have been Mr. Smaug’s personal chef for five years, and you dare to suggest that my food doesn’t look _presentable_?”

“He didn’t mean anything against you, Alfrid,” Sigrid says quickly. “It’s just his job. It’s not Mr. Smaug who’s paying him anyway, it’s… what was your boss’s name again?”

Fíli has to bite back a smile at how well Sigrid was playing her part of pretending not to know him. “Underhill,” he says.

“Ah, yes, that’s right - Underhill,” Alfrid says, “from Shire’s Organic Produce. Yes, I looked you lot up. Isn’t it a bit far to ship your produce all the way from Georgia up here?”

Fíli shrugs. “Look, I’m just here to take some pictures of food,” he says. “I’m not part of the business decisions.”

Alfrid sniffs, and then turns his attention to Sigrid. “Well, hop to,” he snaps. “We don’t have all day to get this prepped out.”

***

“ _Relax_ ,” Mera says for the third time.

Bilbo forces a hand down hard on his leg in an attempt to stop it from shaking. “Sorry.”

“You reckon I could steal that painting by the door on the way out?” Mera asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Bilbo says.

Mera simply shrugs. “I’ll wait until I see the circumstances of our exit, then.”

Before Bilbo can say anything else, they’re interrupted by a young woman approaching them in the lounge. “Mr. Underhill?”

“Yes?” Bilbo says quickly.

“Mr. Smaug’s ready for you,” she says.

Bilbo wills his knees not to give out on him as he stands up and nervously adjusts his suit jacket, and then grabs his briefcase off of the chair next to him. Mera winks at him. “See you on the other side,” she says, and then settles back into her chair, pulling a small paperback book from inside of her suit jacket.

Bilbo follows the young woman to the far side of the lobby to a set of elevator doors. She pushes the call button for one, and the two of them wait in uncomfortable silence until one of the elevators _dings_ , and its doors open, revealing a dark wooden interior; they step inside. It’s an agonizingly slow ride up to the top floor, but finally the elevator _dings_ again, and the door opens to a spacious, well-lit hallway. Bilbo scampers after the young woman, wiping the nervous sweat from his hands on his pants as he goes. After what feels like an age, they reach a set of mahogany double doors at the end of the hallway. She knocks. “Enter!” a voice booms from the other side.

The doors are pushed open to reveal a large, spacious office with dark, wooden floors. Windows run from floor to ceiling on three sides, providing a breathtaking view of the financial district around the building. In the middle of the room is a dark wooden desk with two contemporary looking black chairs placed in front of it. And sitting at the desk is Gordon Smaug himself.

Smaug cuts an impressive figure as he stands and makes his way around the desk. He’s tall with a broad frame. His eyes are sharp and dark brown with a ring of gold around his irises. His hair is mostly silver, though flecks of its original color - a deep, reddish-gold, by the looks of it - are still visible in the right light; it’s a similar color to the suit he’s currently wearing. Bilbo pins him to be in his mid-sixties, but suspects that he is much stronger than his age would suggest. This thought is immediately backed up by the firm handshake he offers Bilbo.

“Mr. Underhill - nice to meet you,” he says. His voice is deep and silky.

“Thank you for seeing me today, Mr. Smaug,” Bilbo manages to squeak out as his head continues to spin. He can’t believe that he’s actually standing here in Smaug’s office.

“Please, have a seat.” Smaug gestures towards the chairs in front of his desk as he circles back around to sit in his own. Bilbo hears the door close behind him as he sits, and he knows that the two of them are alone now. He gulps.

“So,” Smaug says, leaning his elbows on his desk and tenting his fingers in front of him, flashing a smile of sharp, white teeth, “tell me about your produce.”

***

“It’s ten past, Bard - time to go,” Tauriel says.

Kíli’s stomach tightens; my god, this was really happening. He and Bard nod at each other, and then Bard reaches over to plug the flash drive into the side of his computer. Kíli watches as the security codes populate on the screen. Bard enters them in order, and then his screen flashes over to something Kíli’s not seen before.

“Okay - I’m in the mainframe,” Bard says quietly. “Here we go.”

***

“Are you quite done?” Alfrid says, rolling his eyes.

Fíli snaps his camera again, taking another picture that looks identical to his previous four. To tell the truth, there was no real reason to stall this process; he was just enjoying being a dick to Alfrid. “Almost there,” Fíli says. “The more I do now, the less I have to do in post.”

“How’s that salad coming, Sigrid?” Alfrid snaps.

“All set,” Sigrid says quickly, bringing over a bowl of fresh lettuce and summer vegetables.

“Now _that_ is beautiful plating,” Fíli says. Alfrid fumes, while Sigrid does her best to bite back a grin.

“The Asian sautéed vegetables will be done in a minute, and then we’ll be good to bring everything upstairs.” Alfrid stamps off towards the stove in a huff, and it takes everything in Fíli not to laugh.

***

“Lovely titles,” Smaug murmurs as he scans through the fake CV that Bilbo has just handed him, which features several fake small business awards that Bofur had so cleverly come up with. Bilbo is sweating bullets, and he’s trying his best to keep his answers short and to the point, because he thinks that if his mouth is open for any extended period of time, he just might vomit. “Are you a start up, by the way?” Smaug glances over the top of the paper to stare hard at Bilbo.

“Well, the farm’s been in the family for years,” Bilbo says, “but I have been trying to take things in a new direction. Trying to keep up with the times, you know how it is.” He offers Smaug a weak smile.

Smaug sniffs. “I just assumed you’re a start up because I’ve never heard of you before you reached out to request a meeting.”

The comment bites Bilbo just the wrong way. There’s no way Smaug could have guessed it was all a fake - is there? No, Bilbo thinks; Bofur and Kíli have done too well a job for that to be the case. “What about yourself?” Bilbo says quickly in an attempt to shift the attention off of himself. “I know that Arkenstone Enterprises has been a long established business here in Chicago. Is this a family business too, or - ?”

“It’s family, yes - in a sense,” Smaug says. “But I’ve been running operations alone here for the last twenty odd years.”

Bilbo’s blood boils at the comment. He can’t believe that Smaug has the nerve to bring up the Oakenshield family right now, even if it is only in a veiled and vague comment. “Well, anyway...” Bilbo says, deciding to change the subject. He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a few more documents. “These are my production numbers. You can see that we’ve had a good harvest for the last several years, and there’s no doubt in my mind that we would always be able to meet your demand here at Arkenstone Enterprises.”

Smaug takes the documents and glances through them. While he’s momentarily distracted, Bilbo takes the opportunity to scan his eyes over Smaug’s desk. His heart leaps up into his throat as he catches sight of a small black box that’s plugged into Smaug’s computer - that had to be the jamming device. He’s so close that he could reach out and touch it…

“You say that even though you have other clients, which I’m sure you’ve made similar promises to.” Smaug’s words rip Bilbo out of his own thoughts. His eyes flash up to meet Bilbo’s; they’re narrowed, and there’s something almost predatory in them now. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he challenges.

“I have been working with other businesses, yes,” Bilbo says, choosing his words carefully. “But if we were to win the exclusive contract here, I would certainly see to it that you would be our top priority, if you know what I mean.”

Smaug’s lips curl up into a haughty smile. “Excellent answer,” he almost purrs. “Because - believe you me - you wouldn’t want to cross me, if that wasn’t the case, Mr. Underhill. I can be an excellent ally, if I want to be. But I can be an even more devastating enemy, if you understand me.”

Bilbo lets out an anxious hum. “Point taken,” he squeaks. “Now, would you like to see - ”

“You intrigue me, Mr. Underhill,” Smaug cuts him off. “It’s very rare that anyone outside of this city wants to do business with me. Of course, everyone here wants to be in my good graces. But you seem to me to be a breed of business that I have not come across before.”

“Well, I have heard tales of the magnificence of your business practices, Mr. Smaug,” Bilbo stammers.

“Even all the way down in Georgia?” Smaug muses. Again, Bilbo doesn’t quite like his tone. “What else have you heard about me?”

“Only that you run the most successful precious gems business this side of the Mississippi,” Bilbo says. He really hopes that this flattery will pay off, because the words are currently making his skin crawl.

Smaug raises an eyebrow. “Nothing else?” Bilbo shakes his head. “Do you watch the news, Mr. Underhill?” Smaug asks suddenly.

“I - yes,” Bilbo says, momentarily caught off guard by the question.

“Then surely you’ve heard that we’ve been in the media this past week,” Smaug says, a small smirk spreading over his face.

“Oh - yes, of course,” Bilbo says quickly. “The White Gems of Lasgalen theft. I’m so sorry to hear about all that.”

Smaug lets out a bark of laughter that nearly has Bilbo shrinking back in his seat. He opens one of his desk drawers and reaches inside. A moment later, he produces a shimmery, white gem necklace. Bilbo’s mouth gapes open in surprise. “But…”

“Let this be a warning to you, Mr. Underhill,” Smaug says darkly. “Know that I can decimate my enemies with a snap of my fingers, if I so choose. If you’ve been watching the news, then surely you’ve heard of Thorin Oakenshield?” Bilbo squeaks out a noise of acknowledgement. “His family and I have had business dealings in the past,” Smaug scoffs. “Now that miserable wretch thinks he can touch me here, in this kingdom that I’ve built on his family’s ruins? The nerve. No, he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail, once he’s caught again. And all because I decided that it would be so.”

Bilbo opens his mouth before the sensible part of his brain can stop him. “But surely there’s a difference between ruining someone’s business and ruining their life?” he says, and immediately regrets it as Smaug’s eyes flash dangerously from across the desk.

“Not where I’m concerned,” he growls.

Bilbo gulps nervously.

***

A knock at the door suddenly jars Kíli, Bard, and Tauriel from their work. The three of them exchange a concerned look before Tauriel stands and goes to open the door. Vladimir Bolg is on the other side, an iPAD held in one hand, and a look of concern etched across his face. “Mr. Bolg - what can we do for you?” Tauriel says, casually leaning an arm across the door frame, effectively blocking Bolg from coming any further into the room.

“I just have a question for Bard,” Bolg says.

“Yes?” Bard says. He looks over Tauriel’s shoulder at Bolg, but makes no move to get up from the desk.

“I’ve just been doing a routine sweep through the system,” Bolg says. He glances back down at this iPAD, his brows furrowing as he does so. “And I noticed that the mainframe’s been accessed from a previously unused terminal.”

“Well, that certainly is strange,” Bard says evenly. He glances sideways at Kíli and tenses a bit in his seat. Kíli does the same. They hadn’t anticipated this in all their planning.

“I’m running a check just now,” Bolg continues. “When the heat map loads, it should be able to show us which terminal is being used.”

“I’m sure it’s just a fluke,” Tauriel says quickly.

“I don’t think so,” Bolg says. “I’ve never seen this in all my years here. Have you, Bard?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Bard says. “But I’m inclined to believe Tauriel. That doesn’t sound like something that anyone should be able to do, not without the right clearance.”

Suddenly, Bolg’s iPAD _bings_. His eyebrows knit together in concern, and he brings the iPAD up closer to his face to get a better look at it. “That’s strange…” he mutters. “It’s saying that the mainframe’s being accessed from within this office.” He looks up sharply past Tauriel and directly at Bard. “What are you up to, Bard?” he says slowly.

Before with Kíli or Bard can react, Tauriel suddenly reaches out and grabs a hold of Bolg by the front of his shirt and drags him forward into the office, kicking the door closed behind him. She throws him backwards into the door, angling him just so so that his head takes the brunt of the impact. She repeats this action twice more before Bolg goes limp in her grasp, clearly unconscious. She drops him to the floor with a _thud_.

“Jesus Christ,” Kíli mutters, staring at Tauriel in awe. “That was… impressive.”

“Detective training,” she says with a shrug.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Kíli asks.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“How about next Friday after dinner?”

Tauriel stares at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me right now?” she asks incredulously.

“A boy can hope, right?” Kíli says with a mischievous grin.

Bard rolls his eyes. “When you two are finished, we have some work to do,” he says.

Kíli and Tauriel both blush, and then scamper back over to Bard’s computer.

***

“Okay, that should do it,” Alfrid says as Sigrid loads the last chafing dish onto the catering cart. He turns to look at her. “Thank you for the assistance, but I’ll be taking it from here.”

Fíli’s pulse quickens. No, that wasn’t right - Sigrid was supposed to come upstairs with them. One of them was going to have to distract Alfrid while the other grabbed the jamming device from Bilbo. There was no way Fíli could do that alone.

Sigrid pulls a face. “But shouldn’t I come with you?” she protests. “I mean, I did help put all of this together. And you said the other day - ”

“I don’t care what I said,” Alfrid snaps. “Mr. Smaug is a very particular man, and I’m his personal chef; I understand him. And no offense - I’ll not have a sous chef delivering his meals to him.”

He turns his back to Sigrid, making to reach for the cart, but Sigrid moves faster than him. In the blink of an eye, she grabs a meat cleaver off a nearby table and brings the blunt handle down on the top of Alfrid’s head with an amount of force that startles Fíli. Alfrid drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Sigrid and Fíli lock eyes over Alfrid’s body; Fíli knows that there’s a dumbstruck expression on his face, but there’s nothing he can do about it. “ _What_?” Sigrid says. “I had to do _something_.”

“No, good thinking,” Fíli says weakly. “It’s just that... I don’t know if I’m scared or turned on right now. A bit of both, I think.”

Sigrid’s face flushes scarlet. “Well, don’t just stand there - help me move him,” she says hurriedly. Fíli hooks his hands under Alfrid’s limp arms and drags him over to the walk-in cooler that Sigrid has just pulled open. He props Alfrid up in one of the corners. Once they exit, Sigrid jams up the door handle with a knife, making it impossible for the door to be opened from the inside.

“Is he going to be okay in there?” Fíli asks as she secures the knife in place.

“He should be,” Sigrid says, almost reluctantly. “But quite frankly, I don’t really care if he isn’t.”

Fíli lets out a low breath. It’s quite possible that he’s falling for this girl more and more with every passing second.

“Come on,” Sigrid says, grabbing hold of the cart. “We’ve got a burglar to assist.”

***

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Underhill?”

“Yes,” Bilbo squeaks out. “Loud and clear.”

“I thought so,” Smaug says with a smirk. He places the necklace back in his drawer.

Talking to Smaug was like standing in the middle of an ice flow, Bilbo thinks. Sure, he’d felt as if he’d had solid enough footing in the beginning, but the current could shift at any time, throwing him off balance, or he could tip off the end entirely. And if that happened, Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure he’d be making it out of this office alive.

“Why did you tell me all of that?” he chances.

Smaug looks at him for what feels like an eternity. Bilbo half expects the words ‘Because I suspect you’ to come out of his mouth.

But things take quite a different turn. “Because I was testing you,” Smaug finally says. “And you passed.”

Bilbo feels relief flood through him. “Ah, well, that’s good,” he stammers, not knowing what else to say.

“You seem to have a good business sense about you,” Smaug continues. “And just a touch of empathy - but no sympathy for my enemies, as far as I could detect.” His eyes flash onto Bilbo again, and Bilbo has a sneaking suspicion that the test isn’t quite over yet. He does his best to keep his face as placid as possible.

***

The elevator doors open, and Fíli finds himself staring down a long hallway at a set of heavy double doors. This was it: Smaug’s office. _Or lair_ , he thinks to himself with a laugh.

Sigrid rolls the cart out of the elevator, and Fíli follows. “Here,” he says as the doors close behind them, holding out the small vial of brown liquid Nori had given him this morning. “What do you reckon we should put it on.”

“The Asian vegetables,” Sigrid says. “It looks close enough to soy sauce to be able to blend in, don’t you think?”

Fíli shrugs. “Only one way to find out.” Sigrid lifts the lid off of one of the chafing dishes and sprinkles the liquid over the vegetables. Once she’s finished, Fíli makes to head down the hallway, but Sigrid doesn’t budge. He frowns, and takes a step towards her. “You okay?”

Sigrid looks up at him, and then steps forward suddenly into his space and plants a quick kiss on his lips. Fíli stares at her, stunned, but certainly not displeased.

“Sorry,” Sigrid says quickly, her cheeks flushing red. “It’s just that, if things go tits up in there… well, I didn’t want my last kiss to be from that shitty Tinder date I went on a few weeks ago.”

Fíli laughs. “If we make it out of here today, what’s the over-under on doing that again?” he grins at her.

“I’d say pretty fair,” Sigrid smirks.

Fíli beams, quite pleased with himself. “Okay, you ready?” he asks, and Sigrid nods. They push the cart down the remaining length of the hall, and knock on the door.

***

“Look,” Bilbo says. “My main concern here is being able to provide you and your company with a service. You and your personal vendettas are not my business.” He’s taking a chance here, going down the ‘play it off cool’ road. But it seems to pay off as Smaug nods slowly at him.

Luckily Bilbo is spared any further discussion by a knock at the door. “Enter!” Smaug shouts, and a moment later the doors swing open to reveal Fíli and Sigrid with a cart full of chafing dishes. Bilbo wonders briefly why Sigrid’s boss isn’t with them, but he tries to push the thought from his mind; he has other things to worry about at the moment.

“Right on time,” Smaug says, “but a man down. Where’s Alfrid?”

“Chef Alfrid’s gone home early today,” Sigrid says. “He was feeling a bit under the weather. I hope that isn’t a problem.”

Smaug sniffs. “Well, nothing to be done about it now.” His eyes narrow a bit on Sigrid. “You’re the Bowman girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s see what you’ve made me.” Smaug gestures towards the cart. Fíli and Sigrid immediately begin to unload the dishes, arranging them on top of Smaug’s desk. Fíli snaps a few pictures. “What do you suggest?” Smaug asks.

“I’d try the Asian vegetable sautée first,” Sigrid says. “It’s best while it’s hot.” Smaug nods, and reaches for the plate.

Bilbo pulls another pack of papers from his briefcase and slides them onto Smaug’s desk, placing them so that they’re covering the jamming device next to his computer. “This is a complete list of every recipe Miss Bowman has made today, as well as information on where every vegetable is sourced from and the process we take to grow them,” he says.

Smaug glances down at the packet but doesn’t touch it as he continues to shovel vegetables into his mouth. “Would you like to try?” he finally asks, extending the plate towards Bilbo.

“Oh, no thank you,” Bilbo says quickly. He’s not sure which dish Fíli and Sigrid have put Nori’s concoction on, and he doesn't want to risk ingesting it on accident.

Smaug shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Bilbo, Fíli, and Sigrid watch in silence as Smaug makes his way through the remaining dishes. “This was excellent - well done,” he says as soon as he’s finished. Bilbo has to bite back a smile as he catches sight of sweat beginning to bead on Smaug’s forehead.

“Thank you,” Sigrid smiles. She and Fíli begin to pack up the cart with the empty dishes.

Bilbo watches as Smaug tugs absently at his collar in an attempt to loosen it. His face is growing more red by the second. Whatever had been in Nori’s vial was certainly working as well as he had promised it would. Fíli and Sigrid are nearly to the door when Smaug stands suddenly, a look of discomfort clearly evident on his face. “If you’ll just excuse me a minute,” he gasps out, and then makes a beeline for the bathroom on the far wall.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Bilbo springs up toward Smaug’s desk. He reaches under the packet that he’d placed down earlier, and unplugs the jamming device from Smaug’s computer with shaking hands. Jesus Christ - this was actually happening. He dashes towards the door and nearly throws the device at Fíli, who quickly stashes it inside of an empty chafing dish. He and Sigrid back out of the office with the cart, and Bilbo dives back into his chair just as the bathroom door opens and Smaug reemerges.

“Sorry about that,” Smaug says as he takes a seat back at his desk. “Now, where were we?”

***

Kíli watches as the link for Smaug’s computer suddenly turns from grayed-out to active. “Bilbo’s done it!” he says as Bard clicks on the link and immediately begins entering the security codes. A second later, a desktop background pops up on his screen.

“Oh my god, I’m in Smaug’s computer,” Bard says quietly, his eyes growing wide. He immediately begins going through the drives.

“Would it be faster to search for something?” Tauriel says. “Is there a keyword we could enter?”

“No, I don’t want to leave a search trail,” Bard says. “We’ll just have to go digging through his files the old fashioned way.”

***

Bilbo pulls another sheet of paper from his briefcase. “This is a full lineup of our fall vegetables,” he says, “that would all be available beginning next month - that is, if you’re interested in pushing the contract through in time.” He looks expectantly up at Smaug. Sure, it’s a bit of a ballsy thing to say, but having gotten the jamming device out of the room successfully, Bilbo feels a new surge of confidence rising within him. They might just actually be able to pull this off, granted that Bard comes through on his end with the security codes; and, of course, assuming that there _are_ files to find due to Smaug being meticulous with his record keeping, as Bilbo suspects he is.

Smaug takes the paper and glances over it. “You’re very confident that I will say yes to this whole thing, Mr. Underhill,” Smaug muses as he scans through the figures in front of him.

“Well, what can I say? I know that my produce is top of the line - I wouldn’t expect you to want anything else, not when the very best is available.”

Smaug tilts his head in agreement, still looking at the document.

***

“Hang on… what’s this?” Bard mutters. He squints, and leans forward toward his computer screen. Behind him, Tauriel and Kíli lean in closer as well. Bard double clicks on a file, and suddenly a series of images of what appear to be money transfers and account statements populate the screen.

“Jesus Christ - I think that’s it,” Kíli whispers.

Immediately, Tauriel dives back towards her desk and reaches for her cell phone. “Legolas, get here - now!” she nearly shouts.

“It’ll just take a minute or two to download,” Bard says. “Christ - look how far back these go.”

“It’s everything,” Kíli mutters, staring at the screen in awe as Bard initiates the download. A percentage bar pops up on the screen. It’s ticking much too slowly for Kíli’s liking, but maybe that’s because everything feels like it’s in slow motion right now. This was everything that Thorin and Bard had been looking for for years. This was what was going to take Smaug down.

***

“What was in that salad - the one with the radishes?” Smaug asks suddenly. Bilbo watches in horror as Smaug lifts up the recipe packet and begins to flip through it; on the desk below is now a very obviously empty spot where the jamming device used to be. Bilbo gulps, hoping that Smaug doesn’t notice that it’s missing. Smaug flips through the packet until he finds what he’s looking for. “Ah, so it was a _blueberry_ vinaigrette. Interesting.”

“Yes, we do grow several types of berries on the farm as well,” Bilbo says, “so we’re always happy to incorporate them whenever we can into our recipes.”

Smaug nods, and makes to set the packet back down on the desk. But he freezes mid-motion, his eyes fixating onto the empty space on his desk. Bilbo feels his blood turn icy. This was not good - not good at all. Smaug’s eyes suddenly snap up to Bilbo. They’re blazing with what Bilbo can only describe as fiery rage. “ _Where is it_?” he growls.

“I don’t know what you’re talk - ” Bilbo starts.

“Liar!” Smaug shouts. He slams a hand down on his desk, making Bilbo flinch at the sudden noise. “What have you done with it? Who are you working for? How _dare_ you try to steal from me, you miserable thief!”

Bilbo shrinks back in his seat. “I don’t - ”

“Bowman!” Smaug shrieks. “He’s the only person who knew about this device. And that miserable girl of his was just up here!” Smaug’s face is growing redder by the second, and he’s beginning to shake with rage. “Why, oh why didn’t I think that I needed personal security in the room? I was just dealing with a goddamn grocer.” He glares at Bilbo. “I bet you’re not even a farmer,” he accuses.

“No - that part’s real,” Bilbo squeaks out.

“ _That part_?” Smaug slams both his hands down onto his desk this time. He narrows his eyes. “Who are you working for? Who would send you in here alone…” He trails off, momentarily lost in thought, and then his eyes snap back onto Bilbo with a renewed intensity. “It’s that coward, Oakenshield, isn’t it?” he hisses.

Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. No - this was going all wrong. They’d been so close, and now the cat was out of the bag.

“I knew he’d come at me one day,” Smaug growls. “I should have anticipated it, should have known that a nobody-farmer from Georgia couldn’t have been anything but trouble. What’s your cut in all this, hmm? What did Oakenshield promise you? Money? Power?” Bilbo says nothing, which only causes Smaug to sneer at him. “You’ll get _nothing_ ,” he continues. “Whatever he promised you, whatever he’s told you - it’s all a lie. Thorin Oakenshield is a self-serving worm who’d do anything to get what he wants - _use_ anyone. He’s just like his father, and his grandfather before him. You’re nothing more than a pawn to Oakenshield, you know. And not even an important one, judging on the fact that he sent you in here without any backup. You mean _nothing_ to him, Mr. Underhill.”

“That’s not true!” Bilbo shouts before he can stop himself. He immediately regrets it.

In the next second, Smaug violently knocks everything off of his desk in one clearing sweep of his arms, and then launches himself out from behind his desk and dives towards Bilbo, who yelps, and scrambles out of his chair in fright. He kicks it over, putting an obstacle between himself and Smaug. It doesn’t deter Smaug very long, however, as he reaches for the other chair and hurls it at Bilbo. Bilbo’s not fast enough, and the chair clips him in the back of the legs, knocking him to the ground. Smaug looms over him, and then reaches down and hauls Bilbo up by the front of his shirt, then slams him roughly onto the desk. Bilbo sputters out a series of uncomfortable coughs as the wind is knocked completely out of him.

“This company is _mine_ ,” Smaug growls, shoving Bilbo harder into the desk for emphasis. “I took it from the Oakenshields, and they have no right to think that they’re entitled to any of it, those miserable wretches! Thorin Oakenshield has proven to be nothing more than a petty criminal. What lies did he tell you to make you agree to this? Did he tell you that you were friends?”

Again, Bilbo says nothing, but glares at Smaug. Suddenly Smaug’s face changes, and a wicked smile begins to creep over his features. “Oh, no - it’s something more than that,” he almost purrs. “Did he tell you that he loved you? Oh, you silly man. Oakenshield isn’t capable of thinking of anyone besides himself. It’s all a lie, Mr. Underhill - every single bit of it.”

“You’re lying to me right now,” Bilbo grits out. His words come out shakier than he would have liked, but it’s hard to feel brave when you’re being pinned painfully to a desk by a man whose strength far outweighs your own. He tries to think of Thorin, of Fíli and Kíli, of the company - even of his uncle Gandalf and Radagast. He tries to think of everything they’ve been through together, of all the love and hope and ups and downs and everything in between. Because that’s why he’s here in this room right now - that’s what all of this has been about. But there’s just the smallest part of his brain that cruelly whispers, _But what if Smaug’s right_?

“You fool,” Smaug spits. “Oakenshield has done nothing but use you - and to an ill end, it seems. Because, you and I both know, I can’t let you walk out of this office - I can’t give him that satisfaction of knowing how close he came today. No - he’ll only get the bitter lesson of what happens when he tries to challenge me - and it’s going to be delivered in the form of your dead body.” Bilbo blanches at his words, and in the next second, he feels Smaug’s hands move from his shoulders to his throat. His grip tightens. Bilbo reaches up and tries his best to pull Smaug’s hands free, but they don’t budge. He can feel his throat constricting, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe as the seconds go on. He kicks his legs out wildly, but Smaug doesn’t relent. This is it, he thinks. He’s going to die here. And will it all have been for nothing?

The corners of Bilbo’s vision begin to darken. He stops struggling, suddenly spent beyond all measure. He closes his eyes.

Suddenly there’s a loud commotion behind them, and Bilbo hears what he thinks is the doors bursting open.

“Gordon Smaug - you’re under arrest!” a familiar voice shouts.

Suddenly the hands around Bilbo’s neck disappear, and his lungs are flooded with a rush of air. He gasps out as he slides off the desk and collapses onto the ground in a heap. He coughs and clutches at his throat. The last thing he sees is the face of Detective Inspector Thranduil Greenleaf, flanked by at least a half dozen police officers, swimming through his fuzzy vision before he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it's been two weeks and the good news is that I've survived the first homestand of the baseball season, a playoff hockey game, and several nights biking home a lot more drunk than I'd care to admit (10/10 would not recommend ever). But the even better news is that we've got a new chapter!

“Bilbo?”

Mera’s hazy face comes swimming into focus as Bilbo slowly opens his eyes. His head hurts and his neck aches and he’s not entirely sure where he is. He blinks hard until his eyes adjust to the light. Ah, yes - he’s still in Smaug’s office. But Smaug’s not here. Instead, there’s several police officers and Mera.

“Up you get,” Mera says gently, helping Bilbo into a sitting position. He leans his back against Smaug’s desk. “Here.” Mera hands him a bottle of water; Bilbo takes it gratefully. It hurts to swallow, but the cool water feels strangely good at the same time.

“Where’s Smaug?” he manages to croak out after another minute. “What happened?”

“D.I. Greenleaf took him out of here,” Mera says. “I was down in the lobby when all the sudden a bunch of cops busted in. It was total chaos. No one seemed to know what was going on, and in the confusion I followed them up here. But from what I can tell, they’ve got him, and have the evidence to put him away for the rest of his life.”

At these words, Bilbo leans his head back against the desk and closes his eyes. It was over - all of it. Smaug would go to jail, and Thorin would have his company back. Somehow, it didn’t seem real quite yet.

“Mr. Baggins?”

Bilbo looks up to see a young officer who looks startlingly like D.I. Greenleaf approaching. His stomach drops just a bit; he doesn’t even want to think about how this officer knows his name. “Yes?”

“D.I. Greenleaf would like a word, if you’re feeling up to it,” the officer says.

Bilbo nods. Mera helps to haul him to his feet, and the two of them follow the officer out the door and down the hall to the elevators. They ride down in silence, and then follow the officer out of the front door. The scene outside is chaos. There’s at least six police cruisers, from what Bilbo can count, parked haphazardly around the front entrance; Bilbo suspects that several of the other cars in the area are undercover cruisers as well. Twenty or so officers are milling around, and there’s even two news crews on the scene already.

The officer leads them over to where D.I. Greenleaf is leaning against the hood of an unmarked car. “Mr. Baggins, we meet on proper terms at last,” D.I. Greenleaf says, extending his hand to shake Bilbo’s.

“Erhm, yes - sorry about… all that,” Bilbo says awkwardly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

D.I. Greenleaf waves off the apology. “Well, it wasn’t strictly _legal_ , what you did, but I can see your reasons for doing it now,” he says, gesturing towards the building. “I do have to commend you on your work here today, Mr. Baggins. My officers train for years to do what you’ve managed to pull off. You haven’t had any formal training, have you?”

“No, none at all,” Bilbo says with a small laugh. “I’m just a humble grocer-turned-burglar. For today _only_ ,” he adds quickly.

D.I. Greenleaf nods. “And my deepest apologies about your neck,” he continues. “I can call for medical, if you like.”

“No, I think I’ll be all right,” Bilbo says. His throat does hurt, but the truth is that he doesn’t want to spend another minute here than what’s absolutely necessary. He just wants to find the boys and go home.

 _Home_. Where is home, exactly? In this moment, Bilbo’s not entirely sure if he means Bag End or Thorin’s townhouse or Bofur’s pub or even Bard’s basement. No, he thinks - right now, home is wherever Thorin is, because that’s where he wants to be most in this moment. The thought rattles him a bit, and it must have shown on his face too, because Mera reaches out and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Speaking of the boys, Fíli and Kíli suddenly come loping into view, followed closely by Tauriel, Bard, and Sigrid. They both make a beeline for Bilbo, and grab onto him in a crushing hug that nearly knocks the wind out of him. “We did it,” Kíli whispers quietly.

“Fíli and Kíli Durin, I presume?” D.I. Greenleaf drawls from behind them, just a touch of annoyance evident in his voice. The boys let go of Bilbo and spin to face D.I. Greenleaf; they nod their assent, but say nothing. “Well, that’s thirteen finally accounted for, then,” D.I. Greenleaf says. “I can finally say I got them all.”

Tauriel stares incredulously at him. “You can’t seriously be thinking of booking them?” she says.

“Well, we have disproved the White Gems of Lasgalen theft, but the other charges still technically stand,” D.I. Greenleaf says.

“Dad - you’re kidding me right now,” the young officer who brought Bilbo and Mera outside says.

“Legolas, now is not the time to be arguing with me,” D.I. Greenleaf snaps.

“The Dirty Baker’s Dozen have just helped you take down Gordon Smaug, who you’ve been after _for years_ , and now you’re going to bring them in as well?” Legolas stares at his father. “That’s fucked up.”

“If you bring them in, it’ll be the last thing you do in that station,” Tauriel warns.

D.I. Greenleaf turns to glare at her. “ _Excuse me_?”

“You bring them in, and I tell your boss how you had Legolas and me bug Bard’s house without clearance or a warrant,” she says, somewhat smugly.

Bard folds his arms across his chest. “Which I didn’t appreciate, by the way,” he says flatly.

D.I. Greenleaf’s face pales. “It was done on an emergency basis,” he splutters.

“Emergency or no, it wasn’t protocol,” Legolas says. “But we’re happy to keep our mouths shut about it if you drop the other charges.”

Bilbo watches D.I. Greenleaf visibly deflate in front of them. “Fine,” he grits out. “Consider them dropped.”

At these words, Fíli claps an arm around his brother’s shoulder, and reaches for Sigrid with his other hand. Bilbo sees Kíli and Tauriel exchange an interesting look; he makes a note to keep an eye on the two of them later. My god - they were going to get out of this (mostly) unscathed, he thinks.

But Bilbo’s almost cheery mood is immediately diminished as he sees Gordon Smaug being led towards them in handcuffs, escorted by two officers. They steer him towards another cruiser. Bilbo’s not entirely sure why he does it, but he takes a few steps towards them. Smaug notices and looks up at Bilbo as he pushed into the back of the cruiser. “Well, thief - are you satisfied?” he sneers.

“Quite,” Bilbo says as coolly as he can manage; it’s taking a good deal of effort not to start shaking at the moment.

“You’ll get nothing, you know,” Smaug says. “Your part in this is over. I guarantee now that Oakenshield has Arkenstone Enterprises back that he’ll forget about you. Best to run along back to wherever it is that you came from while you still can.”

“Enough,” D.I. Greenleaf cuts in. He steps between Bilbo and Smaug.

Smaug scowls at him. “I can’t wait until this whole thing collapses because you didn’t have the proper warrants, Greenleaf,” he spits. “You were here conveniently too fast for this to have been done legally. I’ll see you in court and - .” D.I. Greenleaf reaches over and slams the cruiser door closed before Smaug can finish his thought.

Bilbo’s stomach has gone icy. “How did you get here so quickly?” he asks quietly. “There’s no way he’s going to wriggle out of this on a technicality, is there?”

D.I. Greenleaf chuckles. “Believe it or not, everything was done properly,” he says. “Legolas came to me this morning and told me what he and Tauriel had planned, so I was able to call in a favor and expedite the warrants. And a good thing for you, too. If we’d shown up a minute later, I hate to think what we would have walked in to.”

Bilbo’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “Me too,” he says. “Will you please pass along my gratitude to your boss for expediting the process?”

A small smirk creeps over D.I. Greenleaf’s face. “It’s not my boss you should thank,” he says. “This favor came from another friend.” Before Bilbo has time to say anything else, D.I. Greenleaf thumps a fist down on the top of the cruiser, and it pulls away, revealing someone standing on the other side. It’s -

“ _Radagast_?” Bilbo croaks out in utter disbelief.

Indeed, it is Radagast who’s standing in front of Bilbo right now with - of all things - an FBI badge hanging around his neck. Bilbo feels as if he’s about to be sick. No, this couldn’t be real.

“Bilbo,” Radagast says with a curt nod.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” D.I. Greenleaf says, and then departs.

“How...?” Bilbo asks weakly. “I don’t understand - have you been undercover this whole time?”

Radagast chuckles. “To be fair, you never asked me what I do for a living,” he says. “But I’ve been following the Dirty Baker’s Dozen for years, ever since I got posted to Chicago.”

“But you’ve been helping us,” Bilbo says. “You called Eagle Branch and you were there during the fight with the Wargs and - Jesus Christ, you could have turned us in at any time.”

“Look, there are bigger fish to fry out there than Thorin Oakenshield,” Radagast cuts across. “I may have spent a few years watching what they were up to, because that’s what I was tasked to do. But I could never have turned them in, if I’m being honest with myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I met your uncle, and, well… fell in love, I suppose,” Radagast says with a shrug. “I traded in any hopes of a promotion for Gandalf five years ago when I realized that he and the Dirty Baker’s Dozen were only ever going to be an observation report and never a completed objective.”

Bilbo runs a hand through his hair and lets out a low breath. “Gandalf’s killed four fucking people in all this,” he says.

Radagast barks out a laugh. “Do you really think that _everything_ makes it into my reports?” he says.

Bilbo’s head is spinning, and he’s glad that Fíli and Kíli choose this moment to reappear at his side again; he leans into Fíli’s shoulder for support as he feels his knees beginning to shake slightly. “This day has been too much,” he says weakly.

“I agree,” Radagast says. “I think it’s time I got you lot out of here. I’ll drive you home, if you like.”

Bilbo nods his ascent, and he and the boys follow Radagast to his unmarked cruiser. They pull out of the parking lot; Mera follows behind them in her car with Tauriel, and Bard and Sigrid follow her in Bard’s. The small caravan makes their way back to Bard’s house. Bilbo feels as if he’s in some kind of dream state. Things have undoubtedly changed in ways too monumental to even think about right now. But juxtaposed to this thought, they’re simply driving away from the scene as if they’re merely returning home after a regular day of work; Bilbo has to chuckle at the near absurdity of this.

And all too soon they’re pulling into Bard’s driveway. Radagast has barely cut the engine when the front door of the house bangs open and the entire company comes spilling out, followed closely by Bain and Tilda, and - to Bilbo’s surprise - Gandalf and Dís. “We saw the news!” Bofur shouts gleefully as the company make their way towards the cars. “You’ve done it, you crazy bastards!”

Bilbo barely has time to wonder at the new arrivals or the fact that the news was apparently already breaking as he steps out of the car, because Thorin immediately grabs him in a bone-crushing hug. Bilbo lets out a squeak of pain at the new pressure on his injured neck, and Thorin immediately releases him. He reaches out to gently cup Bilbo’s face in his hands, taking care to avoid touching his neck; he looks absolutely deflated as his eyes roam over the bruises. “He hurt you,” Thorin whispers, his voice wavering slightly.

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo says quickly. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to any of us in this whole process, I’ll take it.” He smiles weakly at Thorin, who still seems concerned, but placated, at least for now.

Bilbo turns around to look at the rest of the group gathered around them. Dís has her arms wrapped around Fíli and Kíli; Bard has his kids in a group hug; Nori and Mera are still wrapped up in a tight embrace; Tauriel is being congratulated and welcomed back by the remaining members of the company; Gandalf and Radagast are smiling fondly at each other. Bilbo swallows thickly around the lump that’s formed in his throat as he takes in the scene. My god - he wouldn’t trade in this little found family for anything in the world. They’d been through so much together, and now it was finally done. Bilbo laces his and Thorin’s fingers together, and he leans his head onto Thorin’s shoulder. Good god - it was over. Everything that they’d worked for for the past few months - it was finally theirs. Thorin would have his company back; Fíli and Kíli would have a future free of fear of retribution from Smaug over what had happened between him and their family in the past; and Bilbo? Well, there was plenty of time for Bilbo to make the decision of what he would do now. Because in this moment, all he wants to do is go sit quietly somewhere with Thorin.

He gently squeezes Thorin’s hand, and then begins to lead him back toward the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!
> 
> Tumblr is for some good Tolkien/writing content, and Twitter is for having a good laugh and watching me have a meltdown about something every few days

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: ao3-j-rob.tumblr.com 
> 
> twitter: twitter.com/j_rob_ao3
> 
> Leave a comment here or chat with me on my other social media!


End file.
